Heroes and Thieves
by starspatter
Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.
1. Gravity

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! To celebrate, let's kick off this baby I've been working on for the past year. To those who've been following along with the series – as well as to any new readers – this is the story of how Tim Drake met and fell in love with his wife Stephanie Brown in the DCAU/BTAS-verse, after the events of RotJ. It does _not_ adhere to the mainstream comics canon, although there will be references to the DC universe as a whole. (Please bear in mind that I'm still pretty new to this fandom, so apologies if I make any mistakes. ^^; )

This story will be told anachronologically, covering all the way up through Batman Beyond. And, "spoiler" alert: There _will_ be a happy ending. ...Just gonna take a while to get there. =P

* * *

 _Tell her a story_  
 _Tell her the honest truth_  
 _You treat her better_  
 _Make sure to see it through_

-Echosmith, "Tell Her You Love Her"

* * *

"We need to talk."

 _Dear Diary, a bit of dating advice: Words like those are usually meant to be said by a girl right before she breaks up with a guy._ _ **Not**_ _by said guy when he's just snuck into the girl's room and suddenly switched on the lights while she's getting changed._

Stephanie Brown whirled around to confront the intruder, none other than Tim Drake, her currently very-angry-looking boyfriend.

… _I mean, it makes things_ _ **super**_ _-awkward for both parties._

"Tim? What the hell, you scared the bajeezus out of me. What are you doing in my dorm? How'd you even get in here?"

"That's not important."

" _Not important" my ass. You're just digging yourself deeper, mister._

"And why were the lights off? Were you just waiting here in the dark like some creepazoid stalker?"

"Would you have come in through the window dressed like _that_ if the lights were on?"

Stephanie looked down at her hooded cloak and sleek eggplant bodysuit, accented by a black utility belt, gloves, and boots. Not a bad design job, if she did say so herself. Perhaps it wasn't the sexiest superhero uniform on the planet, but served function in its simplicity, shrouding any individual aspects. (Or so she'd hoped.) Despite the somewhat crude shabbiness of the final product, she took particular pride in having sewn it together herself. …Still, it wasn't something she was eager to share with others she knew – especially the one irately interrogating right now.

 _Okay, so maybe the more pressing part of this situation is the whole "exposing one's secret identity" thing he's flipping out over. …Basically,_ _ **I'm**_ _the one who's screwed._

"Well, no... Wait a minute, where's Cass?"

She glanced around for signs of her roommate, purposefully evading Tim's eye.

"She's out with Conner. They're at the library studying for midterms, which is where you said _you'd_ be when I called earlier."

 _Great. He's definitely onto you, girl._

"Now enough dodging. You're the one on the news going around calling herself 'Spoiler', aren't you?"

 _Yup. Busted._

Steph fumbled with the mask's fabric in her hands.

"You mean the cool and mysterious new butt-kicking crimefighter in Gotham who helped take down Cluemaster?"

 _Real nice save there._

"Stop avoiding the question, damnit. Answer me."

"…Would it make any difference if I say 'no'?"

 _C'mon, you caught me purple-handed already. What more do you want me to say?_

He frowned in frustration. "Quit playing games with me, Steph. I read your diary. How could you _lie_ to me like this?"

 _Oh no he_ _ **didn't**_ _just admit to snooping and try to turn it on you. That's like, rule number one of "how not to be a jerk in a relationship"._

" _Me?_ You're the one going around invading other people's privacy." Steph snapped back, indignant. "I can't believe you'd read my freakin' diary. You can't use that as evidence against me."

"Explain the costume then."

"Um… Practicing for Halloween?"

 _Smooth move, Steph._

His face hardened. "That's months away. Besides, you _know_ I hate Halloween. Jokerz just use it as an excuse to run around causing more chaos, and meanwhile you've got kids roaming the street dressed up like the godamn Batman… It's fucking ridiculous."

 _Here we go._

There it was. That all-too-touchy subject, the real reason she'd been keeping it confidential from him. From the way he always reacted whenever the caped crusader was brought up, he was the _last_ person she wanted to find out about her own attempt at "vigilantism".

"Why? Why do you despise Batman so much?"

He hesitated, shoving his hands in his jacket as his vision narrowed, slanting aside.

"…I don't despise him. I despise what he's done to others – and to himself."

"You sound as if you know him."

He kept quiet, averting his gaze.

"Tim, if there's something you're not telling me, I think now's the time to come forward. I get it, there are things you don't want to talk about. Things that made you the way you… _'are'_. I've been patient, figuring you'd open up about it on your own time, whenever you felt comfortable. I've never pressured or pried, letting you do things at your pace. …But when I look at you with Cass and Conner, it's like you're in some other world I'm not a part of. It's painful, you know? Feeling like I'm the odd one out all the time, like you're always keeping me at arm's length for some reason."

She inhaled quickly, before carrying on with her rant.

"I've been straight with you about everything else. You know about my dad, what he's done – why I'm doing this. …It's not fair though. Even though we've been seeing each other for a while, I still hardly know anything about you, and yet you seem to know everything about me. Hell, sometimes it's scary how much about me you _do_ know."

Glaring at the open notebook on her desk, she crossed her arms accusingly.

"…Maybe it's because you've been spying on me or whatever. I honestly don't mind sharing personal information – because that's what people _do_ when they're intimate to get to know one another better – but it has to go both ways. Communication is a two-way street you know. I need some assurance. At this point, if we can't even trust each other… I don't think we can keep this up between us. Whatever ' _this_ ' is."

That got his attention. He turned towards her, expression clouded thick with conflict.

"If I tell you, will you promise to put a stop to this 'Spoiler' nonsense?"

"Why don't you let me know exactly what it is you've been keeping from _me_ first."

He swallowed and clenched his fist, closing his grasp on a hard metal object, steeling his own resolve before slowly pulling it out. He'd come prepared for this, but his palm was still shaking as it opened to reveal a black boomerang, shaped like a bat. While the bold insignia practically confirmed one of her suspicions, Stephanie couldn't help but snark:

"So is that a Batarang in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

 _Crap. I just said that aloud didn't I._

"I'm being serious here."

"Sorry. Go on."

Tim took a deep breath. "Do you remember the Batman used to have a kid sidekick?"

"His name was Robin, right? …That was you, wasn't it?"

He nodded.

"But… That's so amazing." Her tone hushed, emanating envy and excitement. "You were really part of a legend. Shouldn't you be proud of that?"

Tim clutched the symbol tight, tenor trembling slightly.

"You don't understand. …How could you."

Stephanie softened, extending out to tentatively touch his cheek.

"I'm trying to. But there has to be more to it than that. …Whatever happened between the two of you, you can tell me."

Tim flinched away, already doubting his decision.

"I… can't."

"Tim, you're the one who said we needed to talk. So talk to me. Please."

"No, look- forget it. Coming here was a bad idea. I've said too much already."

"By 'said too much', you mean the fact that this means Batman must be Bruce Wayne?"

He froze, startled by the weight of his own implication sinking in.

"How'd you-"

"Look, I may not be that smart, but contrary to popular belief, I'm not some 'dumb blonde' stereotype." She rolled her irises. "…It doesn't really take a genius to figure it out though."

Tim chewed his lip, only now realizing the corner he'd driven himself into.

"You can't tell anybody."

"I wasn't planning to. …But that still doesn't explain why you're so bitter at him. Unless…" Concern crossed her countenance. "Did Mr. Wayne really do something to you? He didn't abuse you or try anything… _'inappropriate'_ , did he?"

"What- _no_. God no." He shifted uncomfortably. "…Bruce Wayne is a good man."

"Then what is it you're trying so hard to hide?"

"Nothing. Just… You _really_ shouldn't follow his example. Believe me, it's _not_ worth it."

"What example? Of being a hero? Someone who's dedicated to helping others?"

His grimace grew darker.

"Of putting yourself in constant danger under some dumb delusion of 'justice'. I mean it, don't try to be something you're not. This isn't a game. You're gonna get yourself into trouble."

"I'm a big girl, Tim. I can take care of myself."

"No you _can't_. You haven't had any training, and even if you did, one mistake can cost you everything."

Steph stared at him, the defeated slump in his shoulders supporting her own worried hunch.

"Does this have something to do with your… 'episodes'?"

He stiffened abruptly.

"Back then, even I noticed the Joker disappeared right around the same time as Robin and Batgirl… There were rumors going around, that they were all connected to some giant conspiracy. A lot of it was crazy conjecture, but… He is related to the reason you quit, isn't he."

She was definitely sharper than her appearance suggested. Tim lowered his head in silence.

"Something happened to you, didn't it? It had to have been something awful, to make you regret it this much."

She was getting close – too close – to the truth, and it terrified Tim. Even though he'd rehearsed this speech many times in his mind, formulating and fabricating, inventing a response to every inevitable inquiry – to actually recite them was a different story. (Not to mention his mind was still a constant minefield to sift through.) While he'd anticipated and arranged for this potential outcome, all his meticulous organization – orchestration – collapsed when it came to presentation. Courage failing, nerves fraying. Just reflecting on that whole experience made him sick to his stomach. His skull throbbed as flashbacks flooded his stream of consciousness in short bursts and pulses, stinging like insect needles. Pieces of events he'd tried so hard to erase. He scratched at his skin, recalling the straps and shocks and serums, current combined with venom coursing through his veins. Biting back a scream – or laughter – clawing to the surface.

"It doesn't matter what happened."

He stated flatly, trying to keep his voice level. Neutral. Minimal.

 _ **Now**_ _who's the one who's deflecting?_

"It _does_ matter."

"Look, you don't need to know the details. Just trust me on this, okay? You have no idea what you're getting into."

She stepped forward firmly. The looming advance made him feel more trapped. Hunted. Haunted. Like a deer caught in a car headlamp's beams. Lights. Camera. Chemicals. Action. Probing under fluorescent strobes.

"I won't know unless you tell me."

Despite their difference in stature, he cowered under her insistent hover, the color of his accoster's robes alone bringing back a raw reminder of that… _monster's_ scheme. Plus he couldn't stand that familiar look of curious sympathy she was giving him, like she was trying to coax some wounded animal to accept her care. Instead it triggered his flight instinct. He had to get away.

"Will you just _drop_ it already?"

His thoughts furiously began to race, focused only on escape.

"I just want to help…"

"Then leave me alone, okay?!"

His brain was being too loud, his heartrate beating too fast. Fear pumping in his blood as he backed away – before bolting for the exit.

"Tim, wait!"

She reached out to grab his wrist. It was a risky gesture, as without warning she found herself immediately spun around and slammed harshly against the wall, arm wrenched behind her back. There was a brief pause – before a low hiss whispered in her ear:

"Answer me honestly: Could you have defended yourself against that?"

She winced as he applied the twist further.

"Tim, let go. You're hurting me."

He loosened his grip a little, but asked again. Calmer, though still cold as ice.

"Could you?"

… _Okay, fine, we'll play it your way. You want to dance, let's dance._

"Watch me."

She swung her left leg back in a sweeping strike to offset his balance, simultaneously elbowing him in the gut with her free limb. Following the kick, she pivoted and punched, managing to land a combo hook on his chin. Neither blows were strong enough to do much damage, but he stumbled, clearly taken aback by the target's fierce reflexes. Seizing the opportunity, she tucked and launched into a tackle, tripping and rolling together across the floor in a violet, violent blur. She wasn't operating on any real sense of skill or judgment, just momentum and adrenaline rush, taking advantage of whatever opening she could to get a hit in. Respiring rapidly in a blind rage. For her opponent as well, his movements seemed clumsy and uncertain (even compared to the couple drunken street thugs she'd managed to successfully take down tonight), relying more on muscle memory than anything. But while she'd caught him by surprise, he was still more than a match at this stage. (He was trained by the best, after all – even if years of atrophy had taken their toll.) Before she could even comprehend what was happening, he had disentangled and dominated again, straddling her pinned waist.

 _You know, a "normal" couple might find this position kinky._

…Except this time, there was a Batarang tip pointed directly at her, threatening her throat.

"Tim…?"

The atmosphere around them chilled. She didn't dare budge, tensely sucking in her chest as the edge of the blade inched nearer to her neck, almost cutting as it traced her clavicle. She frantically tried to signal distress, blinking a tacit SOS. Myopic Mayday. But the mute message was lost, drowned in those dead, empty pools – swimming within a murky mist. Black holes engulfed in lack of logic or light; perception muddled by a static screen, muffled filter. Like projecting an old movie film, a dazed trance. As if her existence – let alone safety – _reality_ – didn't even register.

…What was more disconcerting though, was the curved contrast of his mouth beneath the shade. A crescent sliver, displaying a disturbing gleam of Cheshire teeth – stark white and sinister.

 _Is he… smiling?_

Surely it was a trick of the ambience. A fleeting tug, a temporary twitch. Though the spasm passed within a second, the weapon stayed put. Ages ticked by, and her torso became numb, practically vegetating into a hollow trunk. She didn't complain or utter protest, barely bothering to gulp back saliva gathering around her sandpaper tongue.

After an eternity, his distant, dilated pupils locked onto hers, and there was a momentary flicker of recognition – remorse – in them. The haze lifted as he instantly released his chokehold, dismounting.

"…Sorry."

He muttered, refusing to meet her regard.

"I shouldn't have been so rough. But do you get it now?"

Steph was still too stunned to say anything, for once at a loss for words. Mental processing a sheer blank.

"I don't want to see you wearing that outfit again."

The declaration hung heavy in the air as he stalked out the door, shutting it forcefully behind him.

Stephanie eased in relief and sat up, rotating her cuff's sore socket and rubbing her ribs where he'd knocked the wind out of her. As she relaxed, her internal monologue gears revolved again.

 _Ow. Guess he wasn't the Boy Wonder for nothing._

The physical ache couldn't compete with what was brewing inside though. A mixture of dread and confusion and emotion swirling anxiously like a storm in her abdomen. It was obvious he hadn't been holding back, but was it really just to teach her a lesson? There didn't seem to be any intentional malice behind it (not like the way her dad used to "punish" her and mom at least). ...Rather, from the way he fought initially, it was as if he was acting out of pure panic and desperation. Like his life depended on it.

…But then, there was that eerie grin. Had she just imagined it?

It's not the first time she's seen him like this. In addition to the jumpiness and spacing out (not to mention sullen aggression), she'd witnessed his prowess in combat before, back when she wasn't even aware of his previous persona. She'd been impressed by it, but also a bit intimidated. …He almost lost control then too.

Balling her knuckles on her knees, her concentration fell upon the discarded cloth on the ground. Picking it up, she stretched it over her hair and features to obscure them, and determinedly drew up her cowl.

 _Sorry, Tim, but I can't just leave this alone._

She cast out the window, surveying the moon against the red horizon. Even at this late hour, the sky seemed in eternal dusk ( _due to all the pollution_ , she thought dryly). Opening to the evening breeze, she sighed at the sight of the drop. Climbing up was one thing, but getting down was a lot more difficult.

 _Maybe I should have a chat with Res Life about changing to a lower level._

Suppressing vertigo, she ignored the vacillating view and started to scale the side of the building. …Unfortunately, just as she approached the base, her toes lost traction on the last brick, tumbling rather ungracefully into the bushes.

"Damn gravity."

She murmured, massaging her bruised bottom.

 _Definitely gotta work on that landing._

Hastily scrambling to her feet, she double-checked to make sure no one else was around (to witness the embarrassment of such a miserable acrobatic performance), before darting across campus. Slipping through the shadows, she shimmied over the university gate and took off towards the city.

Tomorrow's test would have to wait. Tonight she had another mission: Score a date with the dark knight, and convince him to spill – for Tim's sake. (…At least, that's how she tried to assure herself she was doing the right thing.)

 _How hard could it be?_

* * *

 _But don't you run away run away_  
 _When you get tired_  
 _'Cause this will slip away slip away_  
 _And start a fire_

* * *

Cassandra's and Conner's presences will be explained, in time... Next up: Tim's and Steph's first meeting.


	2. Meeting

To the lovely guest reviewer: Thanks so much for your kind words! It really means a lot to me right now. BTAS Tim has become one of my personal favorites, and is my first exposure to the character and series in general, so I want to portray him as close to DCAU canon as I can while balancing both sides of his origin (i.e. Jason and Tim roots). I love that he basically combines the best qualities of both, and feel he deserves his own story to be told. I do adore the original relationship between Tim and Steph in the comics as well, so I hope to try and capture/honor that dynamic in the context of this setting. ...Even though I still feel like I don't know nearly enough about either character to be able to portray them effectively lol. OTL Writing Steph is quite fun though. \o/ I just hope I'm doing her justice. ^^;

That said: Let's bring on the purple princess's first encounter with her "prince"~ *brick'd*

* * *

 _Slow down, you crazy child_  
 _You're so ambitious for a juvenile_  
 _But then if you're so smart, tell me_  
 _Why are you still so afraid?  
_  
-Billy Joel, "Vienna"

* * *

 _Then._

"Hey, you hear about what happened? Some guy fainted during lab."

"What, were they dissecting something?"

"Nah, get this: It was electrical engineering. Dude just started freaking out all of a sudden when someone came up behind him with a pair of battery clamps. I think they were playing some kind of practical joke."

"You're talking about Tim Drake, right? The computer whiz? He's seriously _weird_."

"He's kinda cute though, don't you think?"

"I guess, but he's a total creep. I mean, he never talks to anyone. And he always looks angry for some reason. It's scary."

"He wasn't always that way. I knew him back in junior high, we used to trade comics and play video games together. He was sorta shy and kept to himself at first when he transferred in, but friendly once you got to know him. Plus he turned out to be super-smart when it came to tech stuff, everyone treated him like the local expert. He was a real nice guy about it, always happy to come over and help fix any software bugs. Surprisingly good at sports too, he liked to brag and show off for the crowd by doing crazy cool stunts. Even though he was often getting in trouble for all the rebel antics, everyone else thought it was a riot. He was kind of the class clown; known for cracking a lot of dumb puns and generally being a cocky wiseass. …It's not like he was just doing it for attention though. If anyone was feeling down he'd try to cheer them up by making them laugh – and it usually succeeded. He was actually pretty popular."

"For real? That emo? What changed?"

"He just suddenly dropped out for a whole year without warning; the 'official' cover story stated that he went to study abroad somewhere, but I heard he was actually in some kind of accident. When he came back though, he was… ' _different'_. Wouldn't hang out with us anymore. He'd act all nervous and twitchy whenever others approached. It was like he didn't trust anybody, as if everyone were out to get him. He was always watching his back, looking over his shoulder and constantly on edge – almost as if he were paranoid someone was after him. Like he was being followed or something. He started getting into fights a lot too, and even got suspended once for breaking a kid's nose."

"Whoa. Wouldn't have expected that, he seems like such a geek."

"I remember my mom telling me to stay away from him. Apparently his dad was some kind of criminal. She read about it in a magazine, he spent time in juvie for shoplifting and stuff."

"Oh yeah, wasn't he adopted by that famous rich guy?"

"Sounds awfully suspicious, if you ask me. I bet they were involved in some shady business, and paid off the administration to keep things quiet."

"Honestly, the whole thing felt _'off'_ even before he disappeared. Something sketchy was definitely going on. He'd show up to school late with bruises all the time. If anyone asked about it, he'd make up some lame excuse by claiming he 'walked into a door' or something… I mean, who _does_ that? The teachers didn't really seem to buy it either, but no one ever did anything. Probably too afraid to speak out against someone who can hire the best lawyers in the country."

"No way, you think the old man was abusing him? Man, no wonder he's messed up."

"Sh, he's coming this way."

Their discussion fell silent as the group of gossipers ducked behind fake veneers of indifference, thinly veiled. Feigning aloofness – while obviously sneaking stray observations – as the previous topic of their conversation (in)conveniently passed by. Though he appeared to pay them no heed, the temperature in the air seemed to drop in his wake.

"Crap. You think he heard us?"

"Dunno. Let's just get to class."

They awkwardly hurried off, casting gawking ganders over their shoulders, goggling and giggling to each other in hushed undertones. Escaping around an angle, the gaggle's squawking resumed volume once they assumed they were securely out of earshot. Tim paused in the middle of the empty corridor, letting out an exhale of irritation.

"Idiots. Of course I could hear you."

He thought things would change when he got to college, but every now and then instances like this cropped up. He supposed it was partially his own fault for choosing a field that specifically triggered unpleasant memories, but it was for that reason he was aiming to overcome it through repeated exposure. …Or maybe he was just doing it to punish himself on purpose. He couldn't really tell anymore.

God, he needed a smoke.

Absently, he fingered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket – an addiction developed when pills and alcohol weren't strong enough to take the stress and anxiety away. He tried not to make a habit of skipping at least, but cutting class in favor of relieving tension never sounded so inviting as right now. Checking over his schedule, he figured he could afford to miss the next lecture. The material was all in the textbook anyway, and he'd already read ahead. It was the practical application – working directly with wires and circuits without wanting to recoil at every spark – that worried him.

Grinding his teeth, he decided. Five minutes of distraction. That's all he needed. Savoring the thought of sweet nicotine and tobacco occupying his buds in place of bitterness – deaden the damn buzzing in his brain cells (even if it meant ruining them and his lungs) – he gave into compulsion and started heading towards the nearest outlet. He was so fixated on his craving that he failed to foresee round the bend – and bumped straight into what could only be described as a blonde bullet barreling down the hall. The force of the collision's impact knocked him clear over, ending sprawled on the floor with the clumsy, purple-clad cannonball sputtering on top.

"OhmygodohmygodI'msosorryareyouokay?!"

Tim stared at the extraterrestrial entity that had crash-landed onto him. Blue crystal eyes blinking beneath waves of yellow amber, fluttering and flustered; full lips framed by flushed, angular cheeks; an average yet athletic figure, lean and fit, comprised of long legs linked to a short, slender torso, with square shoulders and hips. The somewhat tomboyish build belied the owner's gender at first, but eventually he registered the two small, soft mounds constricting his chest. Judging by her dimensions, he mentally calculated mass by measurement, estimating she couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds. A portion of the pressure, then, probably came from the bulging bookbag she had barely slung over her slim bicep, spilling some of its contents through a half-closed zipper.

"I'm fine, but… Could you please get off? It's kinda hard to breathe."

"Oh right, sorry!"

He helped heft the satchel up as she quickly clambered off, still stunned by its heaviness.

"Christ, what do you got in here? Bricks?"

"Just books and stuff. Sorry, I was running late and trying to find my schedule, so I wasn't looking where I was going. This place is so big I keep getting lost…"

Tim picked up one of the papers lying on the ground, scanning the long list of subject names.

"You're really taking all these courses?"

"Yeah. Comp Sci's a bitch though, the prof's gonna kill me if I don't show up."

She shuffled around, urgently gathering her things. Tim handed her the agenda, hesitating before stooping to assist.

"…You shouldn't joke about killing people."

He muttered under his breath.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Here."

He passed her another stack, and she lingered on him for a moment before brightening with recognition.

"You're… Tim Drake, aren't you? There are a lot of rumors about you. They say you used to live with Bruce Wayne the billionaire."

Tim rolled his eyes. Of course his reputation preceded him.

"…I'm sure that's the _least_ of what they say."

She made a look like she'd just swallowed a frog. Clearly she didn't intend for that last part to come out.

"Um, I didn't mean it in a bad way! Rather, I hear you're a huge ner- er, like a computer genius or something? I was thinking maybe you could tutor me sometime. O- only if you're willing that is! It's not like I'm asking a total stranger out of the blue because I'm embarrassed and don't know what else to say and ohgod I'm babbling again aren't I?"

Tim watched as her face grew even redder.

 _This girl… Does she just say the first thing that pops into her brain?_

To be honest, it was kind of refreshing – having someone openly communicate what was really going through the other's head for once. Her self-conscious straightforwardness reminded him of another fair-haired woman who used to work for Wayne Enterprises, with a similar flair for lilac fashion and accessories, as well as a knack for digging herself deeper into _faux pas_ pits, prone to both Freudian and foot slips. While seemingly inept, she was savvy when it came to science, and – being an adolescent at the pivot of puberty – he'd harbored a bit of a schoolboy crush on her intelligence as much as mature beauty. …Although she turned out to be wearing a dubious mask as well, burying baggage and a brutal grudge against Penguin beneath bumbling pretense. (Not to mention she already had a boyfriend.) Still, they'd managed to bond briefly over retro entertainment. She was the one who showed him how to reach the secret level of Death Castle 3000 that he'd impressed the guys with back in the day, shortly before…

 _Stop. Don't go there._

His train of thought halted, backpedaling. Mind in rewind. He wasn't sure what wounded worse at this stage: the remembrance of more innocent, carefree days, or how abruptly he'd been robbed of them – robbed of _then_ – so callously and casually. How he'd _been_ Rob-

He clenched his fist, composing. Either way, it didn't matter. Shoving it all back into its corner, he shut the door on the dark recess, locking the compartment and throwing away the key. Turning away from the closet (or was it behind the clock?) where the "monster" prowled (with or without a cowl); watching, waiting, wreathing, breathing in basement shadows. Wreaking vengeance in the night. …In his nightmares.

 _Enough, come on. Get it together, Drake._

"I don't know about tutoring, but I can show you where to find the room."

"Really? That'd be so awesome, thank you!"

 _That's it. Act_ _ **"normal"**_ _. You remember how._

"It's no problem. I'm… headed there too."

"Oh yeah, you usually sit in the back, don't you? Good thing we ran into each other then. Er, not literally of course. I mean we _did_ run into each other, but that was my fault. Did I mention how sorry I was?"

In her apologetic excitement, her hand darted forward, brushing against his as both simultaneously reached for the final notebook between them. She blushed again, pulling away from the close contact as she tucked a strand of golden straw behind her ear.

"Man, this is like a total movie cliché. Next thing there'll be sparkly bubbles and a bad romantic soundtrack playing the background."

Again, she seemed unaware she'd made this statement aloud. Tim felt a faint ripple of amusement rising in his throat, something almost strange and foreign at this point. He endeavored to hold back, but it was too late; he couldn't help it as the mild chuckle slipped out. She amazed, eyes widening.

"Hey, you laughed."

Tim immediately bit back regret.

"Did it… sound weird?"

"No, it's just that… I've never heard you laugh before. I think it's the first time I've seen you smile." She grinned. "You should try it more often."

"That's…" He fumbled with the journal, vision flicking down to the open page in front of him as he caught glimpse of the first line. She panned down as well, tracking his sight, and panicked when she realized what he was perusing. Springing forward, she snatched the stationery and flipped it shut before stuffing it back in her bag.

"Er, we should probably get going, shouldn't we!"

"Uh, right. Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy or anything."

Tim found it a little odd for someone who wore her heart so candidly on her sleeve to keep a diary (especially at this age), but he supposed everyone had their secrets. …Some were just bigger than others.

As they stood and started walking at a brisk tempo, Tim wondered something aloud himself:

"How come you're carrying so many books anyway? I thought most people just used digital these days."

"Oh, well, I can't really afford a laptop or tablet." She confessed, seeming slightly sheepish to reveal her lower financial status.

 _Great job. You walked into that one._

"I'm trying to save up for one though." Her tone perked again. "Doing work-study at the library to pay for tuition and board on the side."

Tim nodded in empathy. Even though he'd experienced living in the lap of luxury for a few years, it didn't erase the fact he'd grown up in Gotham's most poverty-stricken slums, surrounded by lowlifes and scum. As much as he resented being forced to follow in his father's footsteps as a common crook, during the worst of times even he had to resort to thieving himself simply in order to survive. He knew just how tough it could be for those who weren't part of the city's wealthy elite.

Truth be told, he probably could've selected a more prestigious academy to attend; his grades were good enough despite the disciplinary strikes on his permanent record, but Gotham U had leniently granted a full-ride scholarship. Dick had offered to help pay his brother's way through education, of course, but he'd had enough of sponging off others' charity. Even though the older male tried to pass it off as a loan, Tim refused to accept, not wanting to owe any more than he already did. Determined to make it on his own, he vowed not to rely on anyone else's handouts anymore. …Though he did have some doubts about the origin and integrity of funding for such a substantial aid package (even if there was no solid proof the Wayne Foundation was involved).

Still, there was no denying there was a legitimate merit base to it. It took a while (and a _ton_ of counseling), but eventually he learned to channel temper into productivity. He'd struggled and busted his butt through the latter half of high school to maintain top academic standing, managing to graduate with highest honors. Most nights now were devoted to downing copious amounts of caffeine and intensively absorbing information; not like he had anything better to do with his evenings at any rate. In a way, substituting hitting the books instead of bad guys had its own therapeutic effect (even if either obsessive behavior wasn't exactly "healthy" in Dr. Thompkins' opinion), as at least it helped keep his mind off… other things. Things that prevented him from falling asleep during lessons, even though he still stayed up late into the peak light of morning. Dreading that to close his eyes and surrender to dozing off for even a second would conjure recurrent images he could never quite completely suppress – even with the aid of drugs – and subsequently subconscious conduct he couldn't control.

Fortunately his roommate was tolerant towards his insomnia, even if Conner constantly complained about his overly compensating attitude ("All work and no play makes a dull ex-Boy Wonder") and insisted he should take a break – for both their sakes. (To which Tim would wryly reply just to shut him up: "Can't sleep, clowns will eat me.") Out of growing concern for his friend's wellbeing, he kept trying to convince Tim to take his meds so _"he"_ could at least get some rest (and even went so far as to slip some sedatives in his coffee on more than one occasion, although Tim always managed to catch him in the act). …Or alternately, as a more appealing option from the other's standpoint: quit being such a cooped-up bookworm and come out and party once in a while.

Tim always declined the invitation, instead much preferring to relax via more virtual means, i.e. the quiescent comradeship of his computer. Whenever he didn't have his nose neurotically buried in a book his hollow eyes were usually glued to the screen (despite the strain it caused due to increasing debt of sleep deprivation, accruing a dangerous deficit according to his elderly physician, whose cautions he continued to stubbornly ignore). Entranced and ensnared by an enchanted web – a safety net – most of his spare time was spent randomly surfing online and writing source code, fingers flying free across the keyboard at a speed that would make even the Flash jealous.

…Sometimes, for idle kicks, he'd sneak into the school's domain network and mess around a bit with the server settings – just to prove that he could (though the rush from breaching security systems couldn't compare to how he used to soar high over rooftops and beat down villains, forever ago). Hacking was still the one skill Bruce taught him that hadn't grown rusty over the years, and he made sure to exercise it on a regular basis. Even the old man had remarked on how he demonstrated remarkable aptitude despite his age (nevermind having zero prior experience), picking up on complex techno jargon reportedly faster than Dick. Where he could never quite keep up with the bar standard set by his senior's natural talent for gymnastics (although not for lack of trying), he took consolation in uncovering – unearthing – a subterranean subset of intellect he hadn't even known he possessed. The first time he singularly broke through a firewall to access a government database was one of his proudest – and admittedly fondest – accomplishments. Combining sharp wit with an innate interest in gadgetry (as opposed to a penchant for punching), he'd polished potential into proficiency, personally refining his abilities on his own to the point he could probably program even in his slumber. (…Again, not like he did much of that nowadays.) Adapting adeptness since then to more… mundane tasks.

By coincidence, their path crossed by the aforementioned reference center (where he often sought sanctuary between his dorm and the classroom, finding solace amongst paperbacks rather than peers). Following statement of service at the same site as his safe haven, his companion carried on to further explain her apparent familiarity with his features:

"I see you around there a lot, actually. …You're always by yourself though."

Tim shrugged. "Easier to concentrate that way."

She was riveting him with another curiously intent gaze, and it made him uncomfortable as he coughed, admonishing to detract emphasis from himself.

"Look, shouldn't you be paying attention to where we're going from here? You're gonna have to find your way around on your own eventually."

"Ah, right!" She directed ahead again, although her mouth kept moving along with her feet. "Seriously, this school is like a freakin' maze. Can you believe it has its own art museum?"

"It's even got a bank as well."

"Get _out_. No wonder people keep trying to rob this place."

"It's advertised right in the brochure. …Pretty ridiculous, huh?"

"I know, right? They should just put a giant sign over the door inviting all the criminals in."

As they pressed onwards, Tim found himself getting more wrapped up in his partner's pace than he'd anticipated. Her gait was light and lively compared to his straggling slouch (as if his legs were laden with lead, dragged down by invisible chains more burdensome than books), and she radiated sunshine with every energetic step, nearly skipping beside him. Chattering amiably and incessantly in a way that rather resembled Dick before his own… "accident". (Or himself, once upon a time.)

Listening to her waffle on, he wondered how long it had been since he'd last spoken to someone like this (and, as an afterthought: if this was how Bruce felt having a ceaselessly hyper child on his tail). Even if he didn't let his guard down enough to equate loquaciousness, volleying scarce verbiage in return beyond vague acknowledgements (he was pretty sure his stilted responses mostly consisted of barely satisfactory grunts, which she somehow interpreted as encouragement – or at least adequate affirmation of attentiveness), just the fact someone outside the so-called "family" was willing to talk to him for once put him at a peculiar sense of ease. Particularly after years of people avoiding him like the bubonic plague. (…Funny how he'd inevitably inherited his mentor's Byronic disposition – but ironically without all the charismatic allure entailed by bad fiction authors.) Rejecting social interaction with him as much as the other way around.

For that matter, it was already insufferable putting up with all the whispers behind his back – as well as within his own skull. Relentless mad murmurs, memory of murder. He had enough on his plate just striving to keep up a façade, countless hours spent degrading, deprecating, demeaning and demanding in the mirror. Honing and hammering self-perceived flaws back into place. All the spots where Joker had touched, carved and cut away pieces of himself, gouging dents and divots. Vainly tracing veins, rich deposits filled with gems of restricted knowledge – excavating and extracting every valuable bit of mineral from his brain's bedrock, no matter how minimal. Keeping quarried prey perpetually stoned and shocked before dealing the final mortifying blow.

Because the Joker didn't stop there, no. He had an even more morbid plan, a manic scheme beyond harvesting secrets and screams. (Like that silly CGI monster movie Dick took him to see once said: _"Laughter is ten times more powerful."_ ) The wicked magician wasn't content with just plundering the Boy Wonder's cranium, but wanted to make him cave. _Crave_ "Papa's"praise. Construct an enduring monument to his name – a miniature minion – by bending brave backbone and virtuous fiber out of shape – "molding" in order to fulfill his own twisted definition of "perfection". A model "lovingly" sculpted to echo the madman's own demented ego. Since then his Glasglow victim had persistently practiced reverting his expression to a dull default, if not "natural" stasis. Blank slate. It took all his restraint to resist forming wrinkles on a daily basis, stifling any sort of comedic reaction for fear of never being able to restore to its original state (plus it still ached sometimes whenever his muscles stretched too far).

On top of sustaining a stone facial structure, he detested having to abide the abhorrently blithe beams others bore around him – plainly censoring scorn behind poor camouflage – a blanket barrier of defense that went both ways. Even the few who were aware of his "situation" always tiptoed on eggshells when they attempted to engage, and quite frankly he was sick of being coddled like some delicate baby bird (or perhaps it was more precise to say they handled him as carefully they would a live bomb, set to go off at any time – a dormant disaster waiting to happen). Even if they meant well, at this point he hated the humiliation of such patronizing overprotectiveness even more, like he wasn't an adult who could make his own decisions (although to be fair his history was riddled with reckless choices, rash irrationality leading to catastrophic consequences). Both Dick and Barbara had tried to dissuade him from pursuing this career path; Conner was the only one who fully supported him, although Tim could tell even he thought it was a deliberate act of self-destruction. Countdown to detonation. (…In a way he wasn't wrong.)

Which is why it was a welcome variance just to have a civil – if somewhat one-sided – dialogue with someone, no strings attached. There was something earnestly endearing about the eager (if ignorant) interest this girl exhibited in everything around her – including him. Her forthright charm was disarming – and alarming. He kept having to consciously check himself, sternly reinforcing to reign back, refrain from getting swept up in her flirtatious tornado – a temptress tempest. Withstand the whirlwind gust of butterflies bombarding his stomach. It was almost like being struck by a consecutive comet punch to the belly (or, as Dick would dirtily suggest with smug shamelessness, "below the asteroid belt"), only the meteor projectile was a blustering, blundering ball of vibrant vitality. Landing on his side of courtship before he even witnessed the serve: _15-love_.

The mutual infatuation was palpable in her batting lashes and bashful body language, mischievously tugging at the fringe of her hooded sweater. While he could reasonably read the telltale signs of throbbing affection well enough, he couldn't for the life of him fathom why someone like her would be attracted to some lonely loser outcast with no significant redeeming qualities to speak of. He'd _had_ girls hit on him before, citing such motives as _"cool"_ , _"mysterious"_ , and _"bad boy"_ , but they were always so superficial he turned them down on principle. (…Which, in turn led to other wild conjecture on his own orientation, given oft proximity to a certain studly "specimen"; conclusions he neither bothered to confirm nor refute. Not like there was much of his ill repute worth upholding anymore.)

Truthfully he'd never had much luck in the dating department. (…Or with any type of intimate relationship really, regardless of romantic pursuit.) The closest thing to an actual "girlfriend" he'd had (if she could be called that, considering she wasn't exactly human or even originally "female" to begin with… speculation about his sexuality aside) died a long time ago – as did his hope of ever feeling sincere happiness (not the _"ha ha"_ kind Joker fed him) – or permitting himself any sort of endangering emotion again. He'd warily warded his heart, warning against allowing anyone to join the war he had to continually wage against himself. Forging armor against amour, steeling and steering clear of suitors. The sheer dynamic of this one's overwhelming… _joy_ was infectious though, and despite deeply ingrained misgivings, he found himself vastly appreciating the company. (Heck, her clever coyness was starting to rub off, to the point he even risked a few minor quips he hadn't imagined he was still capable of producing.)

He was so engrossed by their exchange that by the time they arrived at their destination, seminar was already well under way. Tim wavered on whether to even enter at this juncture, but the other strode boldly in boot-first, despite the teacher spearing her the stink-eye for being interrupted.

"Well, if it isn't my stellar 'purple pupil'. How gracious of you to finally join us. How many tardies does this make now?"

"It's eggplant, actually. Purple would've looked stupid," she auto-corrected, and was met with scathing reproach. Wilting, she mumbled. "…Sorry, Professor. I promise it won't happen again, thanks to my trusty navigator."

Tim winced as she winked teasingly back at him, and he could sense snickers and judgmental nudges in the crowd, cell phones surreptitiously tapping furious texts to each other. He could picture the cascade of contextually and grammatically inaccurate news spreading across campus like wildfire, at a velocity not even Mr. Kent could match – in or out of costume.

 _Another rumor to add to the repertoire. Swell._

The instructor quirked an eyebrow, evidently surprised to see she was accompanied by an escort, who just so happened to be one of the best students in the course – at least based on the boy's impressive transcript. While the assignments he handed in boasted hints of advanced comprehension beyond the basic concepts, he noticeably never seemed to volunteer any extra intel unless it was absolutely necessary, purposefully retaining a low pedantic profile for some unknown rationale.

"…Is that so? Very well then. Both of you have a seat."

Before Tim could slink to his predictable position in the rear of the room, she bounded over to two vacant chairs near the front row and waved him over. Reluctantly, he followed suit. He could feel all eyes trained on him from every vantage, and he really wanted to crawl into a hole and vanish right now.

As the period progressed, he found himself unable to focus much either, disregarding both board and discourse in utter boredom. Rather than receive redundant edification, his dedication divided instead between mute marvel at the growing number of blatant doodles on the binder's border next to him, immaculate plum-painted nails playing with the pen as the holder gnawed its nub whenever the droning sermon lost her own immersion, and the gentle curl of hair elegantly draped over her nape as she bent over the desk to diligently scribble down shorthand upon gaining understanding to some insight (although her level of competence was certainly questionable, given the number of glaring mistakes he noted; for a cursory instant, he was half-inclined to reach over and edit all the errors himself, but hastily perished the urge). He detected a distinct whiff of perfume and herbal shampoo, and it made him weak and woozy in a different way than those damn pranksters did. The lightly fruit-scented fragrance smelled nice, like lavender flowers and mulberry mixed with muliebrity-

 _What the_ _ **hell**_ _are you doing?_

 _Quit being a perv, damnit._

 _This is bad._

 _You shouldn't be feeling this way at all._

 _Get a_ _ **grip**_ _, for God's sake._

He clutched his quivering knee to keep from knotting into a bundle of nerves and repressed hormones, but couldn't abstain from stealing peripheral peeks here and there, as if her dazzling brilliance were too much to take in all at once. Lusting over luster. She _was_ pretty, in a heavenly-yet-down-to-earth sort of way, and her geniality (if lack of grace) seemed almost appallingly genuine. He wasn't one to put stock in providence or miracles, or even supposed "love at first sight"; but beholding her rapturous halo, he wondered what were the odds a curse could really be cured by kindness, illness or injury consoled solely by divine blessing. If bliss could really be obtained through forbidden kiss (succumb to a serpent's succulent hiss) – or if partaking in poisoned produce would only act as a temporary placebo, if not lead to further pain. …Whether a presence as unworthy as his was even permissible around such a pristine, apparently untainted angel. Just basking in her hallowed glow felt warm and cleansing, an aurous aura. Purging sins from his past. Purifying.

His thoughts roved, ruminating on the idea of salvation, of seeking forgiveness – submit to a flicker of fantasy. …Claim some semblance of an "ordinary life" when he could still hardly cling on to shreds of sanity, sifting through his fingers as sand. To dare to dream of stability, of _"going steady"_ – commit to an alliance after all the times he'd been abandoned by people he depended on – seemed far beyond his forlorn reach, especially when he wasn't even sure of his own horoscope's alignment anymore. The last time he held such naïve notions he got burned by those lofty ideals, flying too close to the sun (or maybe the moon in this case, having shot for it – literally – landing with battle scars rather than stars). Consequently, it became excruciatingly difficult to bring himself to believe in a chance at a better future, when "God" had forsaken him before.

He'd worshipped someone once, praying wholly to what his own kin (and his ilk's conning "kind") deemed a holy terror. By some stroke of fortune – or a cruel twist of fate – he ended up encountering his gallant (if extremely gloomy) knight in the flesh, who granted guardianship in exchange for allegiance – albeit gruffly rebuffing advances at first. He'd gladly knelt and sworn an oath before his king, begging and bowing over backwards out of gratitude, as well as desperation for approval. Before long he learned to leap without even questioning height or hazard, complying to perform flips and tricks on command. (Though there were times when his instinct jumped too far ahead on its own, positive someone would be watching his back wherever he descended. …Rest assured that the collective clan would never let anything bad happen to their youngest "descendant".) Pledging filial piety and loyalty to a legacy, only to gradually discover his idol wasn't a deity – or even a demon as many denounced. …That beneath the cape and cowl and cold scowl was a mere human, a mortal who did, in fact, bleed and grieve, bearing every load on board his solitary vessel, hidden deep below deck. A boat originally built for one (single survivor's guilt) but big enough for carrying – caring for – stranded cargo. Drafting other drifters to his raft, pass on a private craft. Whose pilot needed his crew members' guidance sometimes to keep from sinking or straying off course, stay anchored to safe harbor and mental shore. Rescue from wallowing in waves of rage and remorse when moral compass turned south.

Despite whatever rare lapses in judgment, the captain's (second) first mate remained fierce in his fidelity, staunchly refusing to conceive his hero could ever fail in any major capacity, let alone to a capsizing extent. (That _he_ could ever fall from benediction, and no one would be there to catch him. …That he'd be the first to contradict the ship's "code", plunge overboard into the depths of despair and depravity, with no answer to his emergency signal.) Fealty unfaltering out of reverence and respect, for a man who fought against shortcomings in order to achieve the impossible, executing such incredible feats seemingly without exertion. Dauntless noble deeds of do-goodism and derring-do that he'd fervently yearned to reproduce someday. Admiring and aspiring to imitate his greatest inspiration, adulating on a pedestal. His long-term goal wasn't just to emulate either, but improve upon in an effort to not only succeed, but surpass. Excel by exceeding expectations. …Show that one could effectively combat crime without compromise or sacrifice.

In the meantime, he made it his objective – obligation – to repay the opportunity he was given with optimism. He delighted in playing the scrappy "sidekick" role – enthusiastically reporting to duty each evening with a jaunty scout's salute, ready for a round of roughhousing or infiltrating as secret agents, reveling in all the adrenaline from decking gangsters or decking out in disguises and spy gear. A giddy greenhorn boy brimming with wonder and glee, bouncing merrily about the murky cave as if every day were Christmas – a gift. New toys and trophies everywhere he looked; no need to even unwrap the presents. Exploring a covert cove chock-full of baubles and trinkets (his favorites included a leviathan's carcass and an enormous piece of eight), an ancient treasure trove. A gallery of won artifacts stored below the galley, more priceless than any antique ornaments above surface combined. These were _real_ relics attributing to Gotham's rogues, and a testament to the victories of his predecessors in glory days of old. He even helped to expand inventory, tinkering and adding personal touches to the collection here and there. Proudly placing another procured award behind glass every time they put a baddie behind bars (until the day his own effects would end up back in a memorial case). While a part of him privately couldn't wait to take over the entire empire eventually – take command of the helm – for the time being its property authorized belonging to the primary shareholder by a black banner, sans skull and crossbones.

He didn't mind being backup – an "intern", so to speak – in the interim though (not much to start at least, though it irked when the media would portray him as a waterboy rather than a relief pitcher), marching to pompous parade, pumping up as the team's temp mascot, but a humble flagbearer. As soon as he put on his own colorful cape, he'd caper and cartwheel, putting on parkour – par for the course, but outside obstacles as well. Not simply out of thanks for the thrill. (Although it was a factor in his resolve to replace the former scarlet sailor after he retired as an associate, stripping the red attire in a disapproving act of defiance, mutinying in insubordination and accumulated aggrievances. Tim had tried repeatedly to toss a lifeline between the two in order to bridge the gap, managing to preserve and practically mend semi-severed ties before they frayed and fell apart again, unraveling all at once.) Part of the reason was to dispel dreariness, chasing and shooing away shadows in order to cheer and support his savior, who'd fished him out from the sea after being marooned by a "bad oyster", scrubbing away sewage and buffing salvage to a shine. Benevolently raised from perdition as son and heir to his throne, bestowing wings and faith – only to ultimately drop back into eternal hell again.

Ever since, his tarnished psyche was too battered and betrayed to view beyond anything but blemishes. Shattered self-esteem marred far past repair, leaving lasting scabs on both skin and soul. In his own downcast perspective, his conscience was corrupted – disrupted not just through lies and deceit – but disgusted by itself. There was no precious prize buried at the bottom of the ocean, no diamond in the rough at his rotten core – but a lump of coal pretending to be a black pearl, depleted of value and valor. Masquerading as a musketeer. A stalwart swashbuckler transformed into shell-shocked soldier, war-torn and worn down by the weight of the real world, once adventurous and intrepid spirit weathered by squall and thunderstorm. Wishes and will ground mercilessly through a mill, crushing youthful confidence to dust. Dreams dashed, defiled and desecrated. Decimated. Disintegrated.

…Still, he pondered on the blurted proposal earlier, mulling over possibilities. Why not just agree to help with her studies for now, and maybe, after enough weekly meetings, work up the meek courage to ask her-

 _You_ _ **know**_ _why._

 _You're not supposed to get close to anyone, remember?_

 _What makes you think you deserve it._

 _She'll just hurt and desert you like all the others._

 _She'd never accept you. …Not once she learns what kind of monster you_ _ **really**_ _are._

He shook his head, shooting down the prospect. Who was he kidding; he was better off the same as that brooding bastard – an island in isolation (if not insane institution).

As soon as the dissertation dismissed, he slammed his PC shut, folding perhaps a little too forcefully. Before he could melt into the throng departing en masse though and flee through its midst, her voice caught up with him in the aisle-

"Hey, wait up!"

Tsking, he turned to see her holding out her palm in belated greeting.

"I just realized, I'm such a dork. I totally forgot to introduce myself. My name's Stephanie. Stephanie Brown."

He stalled, steadying his rapid pulse before tentatively taking the gesture.

"…Nice to meet you, Stephanie."

She shook firmly, and he could feel the heat of her hand convecting – connecting – to his. (Again, he had to stay beating palpitations in his breast, stave off tremors and sweat.)

"Listen, if you're not doing anything later, do you maybe want to hang out? Doesn't have to be to study or anything, I just thought we could grab some lunch or something. …You _do_ eat, right? Figured you might not get enough nutrients, since I heard you, er, kinda collapsed the other day. Plus you're so skinny… N-not that it's a bad thing! You look good for someone your size. Hell, I wish _I_ had your figure." She stammered, stumbling over her words again. "God, I'm just insulting you more, aren't I? Sorry, I have a tendency to keep rambling. …I should just shut up now."

Tim wet his tongue, tantalized by the bone being dangled enticingly in front of him despite her horrid butchering of it. Instead he grit his jaw, spitting out a feeble attempt at polite pass.

"Thanks, I think… But I'm, uh, sorta busy. Maybe some other time."

 _Idiot, why would you say that. Now you're just leading her on._

"Oh. Okay." Disappointment etched visibly on her visage, legible in the drooped lines around her chin, extending to the subconscious slack of her grasp. She didn't let go though, and he had to not-so-subtly prompt her again.

"Um… You mind releasing my hand now?"

"Oh, of course!"

She liberated with an apprehensive laugh. Tim felt a twinge of discomfort, distressing over inadvertent damage doled to her dignity as much as she fretted over the reverse. Before he could assuage any assumptions though, their disgruntled adviser interjected upon unexpectedly emerging between them:

"If you two lovebirds are done courting, I was wondering if I might have a word with you?"

They both startled in unison, and Stephanie started to doth protest.

"We weren't – I wasn't-"

Tim, however, was more rattled by the threat of repercussions for making another spectacle of himself. The last thing he wanted was faculty hounds further panting down his neck.

"Relax, Mr. Drake, you're not in trouble. To be blunt, I could care less whatever rapport you two have going on. I only ask that you please refrain from making googly eyes during classtime. There are no points for participation – or deductions for lack thereof – but I'd appreciate it if you at least _pretend_ to be engaged while I'm talking."

Flinching, Tim tried not to look at Stephanie, lest she take the comment the wrong way. Something in him sensed it was too late though, as she held a hand over her mouth to hide a gleaming grin and a knowing glint in her eye.

"As for the timing of your entrance, so long as it doesn't become a repeat event, a few late arrivals or absences won't make a difference. Just please be more punctual if you do decide to show up. …If it's simply going to be a waste of both our time though you needn't bother. Again, the attendance policy here isn't mandatory, and I daresay you don't _have_ to be present in order to pass. You seem to know your stuff, and your examination grades are excellent. Exceptional, even. I would surmise you'd likely do well in this course with or without my coaching."

Tim cocked his head quizzically in confusion, unsure if he was being complimented or not.

"So… What's this about then?"

"I just wanted to check if everything was copacetic regarding your… other classes. Seems you took a rather nasty tumble in laboratory."

"Oh. Yeah, everything's fine." Tim tilted back in relief, but the clasp on his carrier strap tautened. "I'm not sure what came over me, to be honest."

"…All right. I'd listen to your girlfriend though if I were you. Young people like you need to eat and sleep right. I know college can be demanding, but it's no good to overwork yourself to the point of exhaustion."

"She's not my-" He sighed, suspending himself to save time. "I understand."

"Good. That's all I wished to discuss with you. …I still have some business with you though, Ms. Brown. I'd like to see you in my office later to review your recent quiz scores."

"Ehhh?"

"Don't give me that innocuous look. You've already received several warnings. This course may not be required for non-ECE majors, but I'd hate for you to have to fail an introductory elective in your first year. …Actually, since you two seem to be already acquainted, perhaps Mr. Drake here can give you some pointers."

Tim had already begun to tiptoe off, slyly sidling, edging towards the exit. Unfortunately the evasive maneuver wasn't expeditious enough though (he really hadn't rehearsed his stealth techniques in a while), as he could feel beseeching eyes boring into the back of his skull. He rotated and gulped, racking his cerebrum for other reasons to elude.

"I'm… not really good at teaching others."

"Give it some thought, at least? You're clearly a very smart young man, and others could benefit from sharing your expertise. I'm sure you could lead a group study session – or even the entire class – if you wanted to."

Stephanie nodded sagely in agreement, making obvious pointed gestures towards herself.

"I'll… think about it."

"Fair enough, far be it from me to pressure you. You're both free to go for now. Ms. Brown, I expect to see you after you've made an appointment to go over the algorithm module. You know my office hours."

"Sure do, Professor. I bet I even know its location better than this place by now."

Steph chirped sardonically.

"How about let's lose the attitude when we come, hm? We can do without sarcasm, thank you."

As the two took their leave, Stephanie consulted her planner again.

"Philosophy, ugh… That's over in the other wing, isn't it? Guess I gotta jet again, thanks to Professor Hardass. Which way are you going?"

Without even referring to his roster, Tim indicated in the opposite direction.

"I suppose this is where we part ways then. …Hopefully I'll see you around?"

"Yeah. See ya."

"…'Kay, bye."

"'Kay, bye."

Stephanie waved as she dashed off at a jog, though Tim didn't reciprocate. He stood stationary as the rest of the world filtered around him in grayed out motion, watching her bobbing bumblebee locks recede into the hive as he laced a limb through his own.

 _Busy girl._

 _Noisy too._

 _Meddlesome._

 _She'd just be an annoyance._

 _Good riddance._

He looked down at the hand she had held (shaken, shaking) – a hand that had held a gun once – pulled the trigger and the plug on another's life – and compressed with conviction.

 _It's better this way._

Yet there was a gnarled pit growing in his gut. He felt foul for trampling on her compassion, however misplaced it may be.

 _Females are such fragile creatures after all. …But then young boys are even more brittle, aren't they?_

…

 _Besides, she just wants to use you. Just like Bats used you, am I right? Abused you, then tossed you aside – cast away like some piece of broken trash. How cruel of Crusoe! To make his Robin son into a Friday slave, only to discard in the end. Ditched for dead just like your old man._

… _That's not true._

 _Come now, don't be fooled. She probably just pities you._

 _Shut up._

 _Face it, you ain't good enough for her, or anyone else. Don't read too deep into it, kid._

 _I'm not a kid. Not anymore._

 _Little college boy, all grown up, eh? But you'll always be my darling child, JJ. Don't forget, Daddy loves you. I'm the only one who ever really will. No one can adore you like I do._

"I said **'SHUT UP'**!"

He spun around to confront the cackling clown, only to find himself faced with a mob of discernibly disturbed bystanders, gasping in aghast. Abashed by the outburst, he lowered his countenance and pushed past them, plowing through walls of whispers, glowering and growling at any person blocking his path until they parted.

He could still hear the ghost's gloating chant, a haunting, hovering melody. Symphony for the devil. The mocking singsong resembled a siren, beckoning between a rock and a hard place, taunting and tickling ivory in the back of his consciousness. _Pianissimo._ Like an unforgettable cartoon jingle, an Acme assurance – indestructible as a roadrunner. ( _"That coyote is really a crazy clown."_ )

 _Honestly, who needs an affair – some silly filly to play second fiddle – when you've got me? Ardor is arduous, I say. Too messy, too much of a hassle. I, on the other hand, will always be there for you. My love for you is unconditional. Undying, even._

 _Go away. You're not real. Just some godamn figment._

 _Does the nature of my existence really matter? I'm a part of you now. We're intertwined, destined to be together. You and I are real partners for life, old chum – the new and improved Dynamic Duo. Forever and always._

 _You're dead. I killed you. Leave me alone._

 _Oh, I'm not going anywhere, JJ. I've settled in for the long haul. Now that I've gotten cozy and put my feet up, you could say this old jester's just resting – investing for the future. Get used to it, 'cuz we're gonna be roomies for quite a while. We'll have a grand old time, more fun than some fleeting fling, I guarantee._

Humor hummed by his lobe, an alien invader probing his headspace. Crawling, creeping, writhing, wriggling – _giggling_ – wrapping around his cortex like a slithering snake. Parasitic earworm burrowing deep into instrumental rosewood, nestling amongst sinew and frets. Imbedding and insinuating, striking sinister chords and pounding against his eardrums. Resonating within his organs until they itched to regurgitate.

Bolting for the bathroom, Tim turned on the faucet of the nearest sink, groping frantically for the knob as he dunked his scalp under the stream, trying to drown out the delusion via deluge. Wash away the jeering, sneering smirk, lurking and leering over him. He stayed submerged for a good long minute, counting each interval. As he lifted to examine his drenched, dripping reflection, slick and sickening, he had to conquer the impulse to vomit in the toilet as well. Exorcise vile essence through bile. (…For all his wretched retching though, there wasn't even any substance to expel. No way to counteract the malicious sorcerer's everlasting spell.)

He leaned and thudded his thumping forehead against the cool tile, dizzy and dismal, shuddering with dry heaves and half-hiccupping sobs. Choking back laughter and tears, mirth and melancholy. His knees buckled, and he had to adhere to the counter to keep from cringing, crumble into a frail crumpled heap on the floor – a sullied, sullen, sunken wreck. Watching water drain down the basin in spellbinding swirls. (…Contemplating adding blood to the pool by slicing his wrist's hide with the pocketblade he always kept stashed on his person, just in case. _Anything_ to keep the beast's venom at bay.)

His hallucination was right. What right did a basket case – a _murderer_ – have to count eggs before they hatched? There was no way an ugly lame duck like him could blend in amongst blooming, beautiful swans (or bats), let alone be the hero who rescues the princess. How could he swoop in and save damsels – or anyone – in distress when he was the one under duress? Sanity under siege, seized by a malevolent clown prince for the forces of evil. To scale the fortress of solitude and defeat all the inner demons he unleashed was impossible. …Such stories only exist in fairytales, and his was doomed to be a tragedy. Misery.

Wiping signs of sentiment from his ducts, he splashed baptism a couple more times, dampening to distill any volatile components. Soaking and saturating in sanitizing soap – scouring _sanity_ and dour exterior – before drying off completely. He spent some more time correcting and adjusting his cover, checking to make sure his face was properly in place (that the paleness was in fact his own complexion's hue and not someone else's), solemn gravitas still intact so that nothing stood out. Conserve, conceal. Keep cool. Keep calm. Keep _"clean"_.

At length, he managed to quell queasiness and master his legs, mustering strength to stagger outside to the campus courtyard, where he inhaled deep rasps of air. Taking in the panoramic of teeming post-teens, going about their trivial, typical routines without so much as giving him a second glance. …Including a couple going at it in broad display by the fountain, rubbing in their goddamn mating ritual like animals. His head was still reeling as he skulked by the lovers' bench towards a gazebo designated for loners, trying his best to snub both PDA and "parental" supervision. Fend off sweet nothings by dodging behind a smokescreen, float away on a cloud of nicotine. (…So much for staying "sober".)

 _Remember the "Plan"._

 _It's just you and me, kiddo._

 _Forever._

He _really_ could use that cigarette right now.

* * *

 _You've got your passion, you've got your pride_  
 _But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?_  
 _Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true_  
 _When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?_

* * *

BTAS Tim is a great big ball of identity crisis. Is he Jason or Tim or JJ idk. (Answer: He is all of the above.)

Next: Everyone's favorite acrobat makes an appearance~ ;O


	3. Change

"JJ": It's funny you bring up Arkham Knight, since I played the game last year and it definitely reminded me a lot of RotJ. To think that on top of undergoing intense torture like Jason, Tim probably had to live his whole _life_ similar to what Bruce experienced: seeing hallucinations of Joker constantly taunting him, whilst slowly turning _into_ Joker himself... Breaks my heart, man.

...Anyway, as promised, this chapter focuses more on the "other" ex-Boy Wonder in DCAU. (Warning: This is the closest thing to smut I have written. Stupid sexy Grayson.)

* * *

 _One, two boys by the river_  
 _Down by the water tellin' riddles in the dark_  
 _With fireflies under the moonlight_  
 _Carvin' the insides of a tree with a knife_  
 _You ever hear the one about the boy's big sister_  
 _His best friend come along_  
 _He tried to kiss her_

-The Wallflowers, "The Difference"

* * *

 _Now._

Dick rolled over in bed as his cell's ringtone blared loudly, glaring and groping for the obscene noisemaker. Checking the time, he squinted blearily as he noted the Caller ID, unsurprised by the label listed. Though he briefly considered the option of ignoring, he was conditioned to respond to every evening page as if it were an emergency (and, considering the extending party's "extenuating circumstances", it could very well be something important; he'd never forgive himself for not being there a second time when his younger sibling needed him). In fact he was rather used to being awoken at odd hours by now – or sometimes the other way around – even if he'd also since ceased his other "nighttime activity". …Still, old habits tend to die hard.

He flipped open the phone and greeted groggily, speech slurred somewhat.

"Hey, bro. Whassup?"

His hearing was immediately hailed by a jumble of words, tumbling from the receiver like a drunken tirade (which, in his heavily inebriated state, didn't help the matter of his own increasing headache).

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. What's this about you and Steph?"

A curved shape stirred under the comforter next to him, wrapping naked appendages around his shoulders. He could feel an ample pair of voluptuous volumes pressing against his back, alcohol and cherry-scented lips nibbling sensually against the scruff of his neck. Feminine fingertips concurrently tracing contours of collagen craters over hardened hide – gradually fading but forever permanent – circular scars pockmarking his skin. Within. Teasing broad blades and spine (where a bullet remained lodged, buried evidence of a decisive battle that felt so long ago – but still stung like yesterday). A cloying query purred, sickeningly saccharine:

"Who ya talking to?"

"Hold on," Dick murmured into the speaker as he gripped the hand spider-crawling light across his chest, slowly snaking down to his waist. Gently but firmly, he pushed the owner off, sliding to a stiff sit on the edge of the mattress. Balancing the phone in a semi-awkward position (which most people who weren't as flexible would probably find pretty difficult to maintain, even if his own elasticity was halved compared to before), he hurriedly pulled on his pants and rose, staggering to the door.

"Sorry babe, I gotta take this."

"Mm, hurry back, hot stuff~"

Swaying slightly, he lumbered out into the hall and down the stairs from the loft, making sure to put a secure measure between himself and the bedroom. (Though navigating around the familiar furniture and gym equipment was a fairly easy task, he had to be extra careful descending the last step, as even without the spirits in his system, he was still getting used to the whole "reduced depth perception" thing.) Once he was sure he was out of eavesdropper's range, he resumed the call.

"Back. Sorry 'bout that."

" _Were you… with someone just now?"_

"Maybe."

" _I wasn't interrupting anything, was I?"_

"S'fine."

" _Sounded like a girl."_

"Jus' some lady I met at a bar last night. …Come to think of it, I don't think I got her name."

He could virtually hear the shaking head on the other end, more than mildly exasperated.

" _Unbelievable."_

"Hey, last I checked, having a healthy sex life isn't a crime."

" _And you're totally not overcompensating for a lack of the latter in your life."_

"Look, are we gonna talk about my issues with women or yours?"

"…"

More soberly, he asked:

"Do you need me to go over there?"

" _No."_

"Then talk to me, Tim. What happened."

The silence was stark as opposed to the initial outpouring. Dick lowered his tone, softening to a hush. Tentatively, he prompted again via the one clear bit of info he had caught from the earlier conversation before it was cut off.

"You said she's the Spoiler."

Just to be safe, he cupped his palm to contain the whisper. Again, old habit.

" _I… confronted her about it. Tried to get her to stop. And I- I ended up telling her. About us."_

"How much?"

" _Enough."_

"Tim."

" _Look, I just mentioned the fact that I used to be… you know. I didn't say anything about_ _ **'that'**_ _. …I couldn't."_

"And? Then what?"

" _She kept asking about it… About why I quit. I couldn't tell her the whole truth. I mean, how could I? There's just no way."_

Dick sighed, scraping a hand through his hair. He could understand where the kid was coming from, sure, but based on personal experience, taking the easy way out had never worked out well in terms of keeping long-term commitments before (at least any of his actual attempts at them). …Especially when it came to withholding secrets from each other.

"Listen, Tim, if you're really serious about this girl, then you're gonna have to make some compromises. Take it from someone who knows, honesty is key to being in a relationship."

"… _Says the guy who takes advantage of his disability by using it as a way to get laid."_

"Hey, what can I say, chicks dig the patch." Dick shrugged, eyeballing his half-masked appearance in the window's reflection.

" _You're incorrigible."_

"I prefer to think of myself as an 'equal-opportunist'. …Anyway, like I said, this is about your love life, not mine. 'Do as I say, not as I do' and all that jazz."

" _Except I'm not like you. I'm not some super pick-up artist, I can't just go gallivanting around broadcasting my 'condition' to the world to garner sympathy."_ The air quotes in the dialogue were distinctly audible. _"It's not exactly something I can pretend to boast proudly about, unlike your 'stupid sexy eyepatch'."_

Dick clenched his fist, trying not to get riled by the bitter sarcasm rolling off the other's barbed tongue. As much as he generally avoided overreaction to insensitivity, it was still a sore subject – especially when the instigator in this case couldn't contend obliviousness – ignorant bliss – about the actual origin of his wounds (and vice-versa).

"You know that's not what I meant."

" _Sorry, low blow. It's just… What the hell am I gonna do, Dick? There has to be_ _ **some**_ _other way to convince her."_ A pause, followed by a swallow. _"I never wanted her to get involved in any of this. How can I even break it to her without her wanting to break up with me?"_

"Sometimes that's a risk you have to take if you want to make progress."

"… _It's too late now anyway. I already messed up big-time. We got into a fight afterwards. Like, an actual fight. Dick, I… I almost hurt her."_

He sounded scared, like he was about to cry. Growing concerned, Dick reached for his pocket, fumbling for the keys to his cycle as he tried to remember where he put them after returning home in such a stupor.

"I'm coming to get you."

Maybe they were still in the ignition, or his jacket. Crap, he forgot to put on a shirt. He'd have to go back upstairs for that as well. And then he'd be forced to explain to the erotic nymph draped over his blankets why he was bailing in the middle of their "date". …Just like old times. It was almost nostalgic.

" _No, I'll… I'll handle this."_

"Are you sure? 'Cuz I can come pick you up, no prob."

" _Yeah, right. You're intoxicated right now, aren't you?"_

"…Okay, you got me. Frankly it's a miracle I didn't get into an accident earlier. Almost crashed into a pole actually." He sank onto a balance beam with a groan, rubbing his brows. "…I may or may not be seeing spots at the moment."

" _If Barbara knew you were driving drunk around Gotham city she'd have you arrested in a heartbeat."_

"You really gotta bring her up now?" The furrows of his forehead deepened as Dick frowned. "Anyway, she's off-duty today."

Sharp as a razor, Tim seized smoothly on the discrepancy.

"… _How do you know that?"_

Dick flinched, grip tightening on the cellular.

"I just do, okay?"

There was a moment of quiet, before Tim's voice continued.

" _Dick. When's the last time the two of you spoke?"_

Dick heaved a long exhale. Somehow, talking to Tim when he was under influence always seemed to land back on this topic. Curse whatever was in that mix for making him maudlin.

"What happened between us is our business. It's got nothing to do with you. Besides, it's ancient history now. She moved on, and so did I. These things happen. You should just focus on maintaining ties with your girlfriend. …Actually, maybe you should go see her. Babs, I mean. She's closer to you, and she can probably help you out better than I can."

"… _I'm already on my way there."_

"Ah." A beat. "Good. Let me know how it goes."

" _Yeah. I'll talk to you later."_

"…Tim, wait." Dick stood up again, feeling frustrated at his own uselessness, restless and remorseful. He hobbled, wobbling to the wall, leaning with one arm against it for support instead. "I know I haven't been the greatest role model to you, especially recently. Hell, it's practically my fault you wound up this way. If I hadn't been so wrapped up in my own affairs, if only I'd looked out for you more…"

" _Dick, we've been over this. I don't hold any of what happened in the past against you. Like you said, it's ancient history. You're the one who wanted to put an end to the blame game when you got… 'injured'. We're even, remember?"_

"I know, but still. Here I am, supposed to be the responsible elder relative, and yet it feels like I'm the one constantly getting lectured."

" _Are you kidding, you're the best big brother I could've asked for. You've always been there for me since then. I'm grateful for the effort, really. …Even if I haven't always acted like it."_ As if embarrassed by his own admission of sentiment, Tim added: _"Plus, you're a perfect example of what_ _ **not**_ _to do when it comes to dealing with angry females."_

"Har har. Touché."

Despite the jab, it relieved Dick a little, that Tim was still able to josh like this on occasion. He'd been doing it more often ever since he met the female in question, actually. Dick had discreetly observed the difference over the past several months, and truth be told _he_ was a mite jealous at times. Watching those two together reminded him of days spent hanging out with another certain tenacious gal who refused to listen to his warnings, and kept tagging along on various dangerous assignments, impressing him each time with her capabilities…

" _I'm joking, but… I meant what I said earlier. You didn't_ _ **have**_ _to stick around Gotham after that whole 'fake Joker' fiasco, just to keep an eye on- watch over me, you know. You've got less reason to want to be here than me, what with 'that guy' and Barbara both being nearby… I mean, considering the entire mess that followed the first… 'incident', everything that happened between you and her… For you to move back on my account… Sometimes I feel like I ruined both your lives, like I'm dragging you all down with me…"_

Dick wasn't about to allow Tim to start wallowing in self-pity again.

"Look, I made the decision on my own. Those two had nothing to do with it. I was worried about you, so I stayed. Simple as that. …Besides, it's not like there's much I can offer Blüdhaven at this point."

" _Yeah well, maybe you should let others worry about you for a change. I still wish you would've let me come with you that time. …Maybe then at least one of us would still be doing the hero gig."_

"Trust me, it was a long-time coming. My wake-up call just happened to occur a little later."

" _But-"_

"Tim, I appreciate the concern. But right now you've got bigger problems to deal with, don't you? Listen, you've got a good thing going for you. You should hold onto it, and… Don't let go, because once you lose that chance… It's gone. Don't screw it up by making the same mistakes I did. …Believe me, if any one of us deserves a shot at happiness, it's you."

For a minute, his partner remained mute, perhaps debating whether to protest further. Dick held his breath, prepared to shoot down any deflecting arguments. Finally though, Tim simply stated:

" _I gotta go. I'm at the door."_

"All right. …Say hi to Barbara for me."

" _I will."_

"Good luck, Tim."

" _Thanks."_

As he disconnected, Dick's partial vision lazed, traveling hazily towards a poster on the partition he was propped against. In its center displayed an image of his junior self in circus garb, surrounded by his smiling mom and dad: _The Flying Graysons_ , in all their erstwhile glory.

He wondered, idly, if his parents would be proud of what their son ultimately turned out to be: a drunken and debauched bachelor, hung over and hung up on muddled memories, making up for current paucity of meaning or purpose with an abundance of casual hook-ups. A disgrace to the Grayson title, prodigy turned prodigal. Who went from valiantly saving citizens with a wink and grin (not like he could even pull off the former now) to sleeping around on a whim, "swinging" from clubs at night rather than rooftops – trying in vain to fill some void, a hollow hole left in his heart. Tim was right; he was just seeking to sate a starved hunger for attention, a voracious need for validation he'd long been denied. Appetite for affection. Acknowledgment. Acceptance. Substantiate some sort of worth after everything he (thought he) knew was stripped – _stolen_ – from him (literally and metaphorically – in more ways than one), for the sheer sake of sustaining his existence.

Unlike Tim, it wasn't the first time he'd been betrayed by his ideals. …Hence all the more reason he'd stormed out in a huff (seemingly for good), thanks to the final straw – or rather bullet – that broke his back (which he'd already been stabbed in once before). …And yet, no matter how many times he endeavored to completely break away, set sail on his own private path, he kept coming back to the same place, somehow ending up exactly right back where he started. Desperate for other forms of contact after cutting nearly all ties to "family" and friends (not just within the gloomy house where he grew up, but foregoing second sanctuary, his summer "haven" as well), he found himself drifting aimlessly since then, treading water and clinging to wreckage just to stay afloat, now that so many bridges were burnt beneath his feet. …Harboring hatred towards _'that man'_ most of all – maybe moreso than Tim.

To keep from sinking in a sea of longing and lingering regret, he quickly discovered a different method to dispel wrath in place of punishing felons (which in turn had progressively become a surrogate for rage-punching a fraud of a foster "father", whose loathsome face he still sometimes visualized when he sparred in solitude). Where Tim eventually took to literature as a diversion (even if Dick was unfortunately just as aware of other, more abusive addictions – although those had steadily been improving as well of late), instead he turned exclusively to liquor to escape loneliness, slake an insatiable thirst for vengeance and quench resentment. Quell fury without resorting to fists. (Even if firewater sometimes fueled violent urges further instead of dousing ire.) Simultaneously satisfying desire for warmth by throwing himself into an endless series of one-night stands, (self-)disgust disguised as lust. Hate replaced with fervent heat, tangling and tangoing under sweat-stained sheets. Ravenously ravishing, savoring strangers' touch. Relish in passing pleasure. …Easing exhaustion and envy (over an ex dumped years ago, an old flame gone cold – even though he'd extinguished the last spark himself) through empty embrace. To console a weary, guilt-ridden soul by trading duty and sacrifice for decadent vice. From Robin to Bluebird to Cardinal sin. Downing his own woeful sorrows and demons by drowning them in sex and tonic and gin.

Granted, most days he managed to uphold a relatively respectable impression, fronting as a well-adjusted and decently functioning member of society despite debilitation (even if his was more physical than psychological). In contrast to Tim's total retreat into depression – regression – going through the minimal motions in order to survive, he told himself he needed to be strong – to be the dependable brother he never really was (at least when it counted). Still, his insecurities merely manifested in different ways, relying on showboating and overindulgence as an invisible crutch. Resolutely rejecting the rigorous manner (nevermind _manor_ ) in which he was sternly brought up and raised – trained to remove empathy out of the equation for the objective of the so-called "mission" – out of staunch determination not to become like _him_.

…For all his resolve to resist such strict teaching techniques though, even he recognized the suave playboy in the mirror nowadays was as much a persona as his previous mentor's was. Hiding hostility and apathy behind an altered ego, a modified mask. Concealing consciousness over obvious flaws beneath another façade, exuding false confidence. Even if outwardly he wasn't as gruff or tough as his former instructor (or rather false "idol") – certainly nowhere near as mean and demanding in demeanor – underneath the fortified exterior was essentially nothing but a spiteful shell. His real self had become just as brooding and detached – deflated – suppressing jaded cynicism beneath dry wit and humor. Honestly, who was he even to give counsel when he could barely claim to be any better at coping with his emotions?

Things changed – were changing – for Tim and for Barbara. For the better. …Meanwhile, where did that leave him? A part of him felt cheated, like he was being left behind – abandoned in the same way he (ironically) once did to them – and it made him afraid. The truth was he was the only one who stayed the same by declining to let go the past, bearing grudges beyond their prime to the point they festered deep within his rotten gut. Rancid rancor. Sour and stagnant, just like…

"God, I really am starting to sound like him."

He muttered as he realized he was no longer mentally making excuses, but apologizing aloud to his folks' memorial portrait. He seriously _was_ smashed.

To distract his buzzed brain, he shifted concentration to a more menial matter.

"Keys, keys… Where the hell did I leave those damn things."

"Looking for these?"

He rotated to find his guest poised suggestively against the entry frame, dangling the chain from her digit. She was wearing his top too, go figure (though her bottom half was still clearly undressed). She pouted as he approached and made a grab for the brass ring, withdrawing the prize behind her back.

"You weren't planning on leaving me here and running off, were you?"

Dick hastily put on debonair airs, flashing a signature winsome beam that would make any damsel melt. He slipped his hands over coyly cocked hips, causing knees to weaken as he drew her in close (subtly stimulating lower regions).

"'Course not. Why on earth would I want to leave such a gorgeous goddess?"

 _Duh, I live here. Where the hell would I even go._

She gave a giddy, high-pitched giggle (almost grating), greedily eating up the compliment as she arched into his grip, linking limbs around his collar.

"Good. Shall we head back upstairs then?" She mewed demurely whilst playing with a lock of red as she pawed at his breast, thoroughly admiring the rough ruggedness of solidly well-built muscles, rippling beneath bare pecs. Still sturdy and studly (even if somewhat out of shape compared to past prime's peak). "You said you were going to show me your 'love nest', and I don't think I've seen _nearly_ enough yet."

Dick winced inwardly at his own lameness. Sometimes he couldn't believe the dumbass phrases that spouted out his own mouth.

She inclined forward to seal said mouth with an intensely intimate kiss, and he let her libido lead him up the stairwell. (He sensed she was trying to keep considerate of his blind side, insistently guiding to prevent any potential bump or blunder – and wasn't sure whether to be obliged or offended.) As they walked, half-wavering, half-waltzing, she inquired curiously again:

"So who was that?"

"Just my little brother. He needed some advice. Girl troubles."

"That's sweet that you care about him."

"Yeah."

Bored of the discussion already, she steered impatiently towards the bedchamber, eagerly shutting the door behind them. Animalistic hormones raging and roaring, raring to pick up right where they left off; rid any remaining decency by delightedly ripping dress off.

"Now then, where were we?"

Like a stage, she dimmed the lights to arouse an amorous atmosphere. …And yet, despite the dark ambience and scantily clad, seductive beauty growling, prowling before him like some exotic creature – a primal lioness primed to leap on his loins – he couldn't bring himself to express quite the same enthusiasm as before. Mood mismatched to setting or pace. Mind in alternate place.

Rather, he felt suffocated, trapped inside a stuffy, sultry cage of his own creation (as much as he accused the ringmaster of orchestrating from the start, manipulating and pulling puppet strings for his own selfish benefit). Grounded avian prey, unable to fly away – waiting to be devoured by some carnivore, a carnal carnival. Like his own innocence (whatever was left of it) was about to be deflowered.

Because he knew the drill by now. Relentlessly rehearsed the same routine, practicing – perfecting – perfunctory performance over and over, too many times to keep track of. They'd share a few wild nights of tender passion, tearing through clothes and covers and countless condom wrappers with reckless abandon. (For all the uncomfortable scoldings his allegedly appointed legal "guardian" – let alone purported _"parent"_ – gave him on using protection, you'd think the old man would at least be able to follow through with his own recommendation – _especially_ when it came to the most significant person his ward – _"son"_ had cared about since college. …Whom he'd planned to make his own proposal to, planned a whole lifetime together with – only for her to weep over crushed dreams and canceled wedding bells – before settling down as someone else's happily ever after instead when he stubbornly – stupidly – wouldn't take her back. Turned his back.)

Then. She'd start to get too clingy, too close – and he'd dodge and dismiss – distancing – fleeing on frigid feet, promising to call her – only to break that promise and her heart. Afterwards, when she finally manages to get ahold of him – maybe she'd stumble into him in the street, or, if she were persistent enough – already in bed with another – she'd cry, scornfully slap his (im)perfect visage, yell that he's a dick (as if he hadn't heard that line a thousand times before), and when she tearfully demands an explanation for such abrupt rebuff, all he can sincerely answer – from the bleak bottom of his blackened integrity – is the same tired failsafe he's fallen back on for years:

"Things change."

* * *

 _One boy lives in a tower_  
 _With bow and arrow and the artificial heart_  
 _With his girl, maid of dishonor_  
 _He loaded the cannon with a jealous appetite_  
 _They say that children now they come in all ages_  
 _And maybe sometimes old men die with little boy faces_

 _The only difference that I see_  
 _Is you are exactly the same as you used to be_

* * *

Speaking of smut, how about that upcoming "Batman & Harley Quinn" movie, eh? *shot*

In other news, Wonder Woman was pretty fantastic. Y'all should go see it if you haven't already.

06/09/17 - RIP Adam West.


	4. Iron Cross

Merry Christmas, everyone! Thanks for your patience, here's part 4~

* * *

 _See me here in the air_  
 _Not holding on to anywhere_  
 _But holding on so beware_  
 _I have secrets I won't share_

-t.A.T.u., "Clowns (Can You See Me Now?)"

* * *

 _Then._

"Psst. Hey look over there, it's that Brown girl."

"The one hanging out with the freak in computer class? You think they're dating?"

"Ew, gross."

"You know I heard she got knocked up by some loser in high school. I bet she has like, no standards."

"Wow, what a skank. So she'll sleep with anyone, huh?"

 _Look who's talking, Queen Jezebel._

Stephanie tried her best to ignore the snobby gathering of rich sorority girls as they gossiped and giggled loudly behind her back in the gymnasium locker room, mingling and clinging onto the clear alpha's authority. Hiding and huddling under a protective umbra, umbrella safety in numbers. …So much for college being better than high school when it came to cliques and bullying.

As they passed by her change station – all the adulating acolytes swarming around their leader like an amoeba – one appendage broke away from the buzzing cluster just far enough to bump blatantly into her bare shoulder.

"Whoops. _Sorry_."

The drone drawled in an excessively sarcastic tone that didn't sound sincere at all, to the observant master's smug approval.

 _Really, just like high school._

As tempted as she was to make a snide remark on the obvious imbalanced power dynamics, Stephanie managed to swallow her pride and suppress retort. Biting her tongue until they were out of sight, upon which she stuck it out in an equally mature gesture in their wake.

"So like anyway, I hear this new gym opened up on the outskirts downtown. It's kinda out of the way – like, by the boonies almost – but apparently the instructor there is really hot."

Stephanie couldn't catch the statement that ensued, as the distance between them had already advanced to the point their fading words were muffled by rows of metal. There was a shrill burst of shrieking laughter before they exited though, harpy peals mixed with a round of half-appalled gasps, rebounding and resounding raucously off steel. Odd, she could've sworn she heard something about pirates…?

She sighed and shrugged as she got dressed, wiping the workout sweat from her face with a towel and pulling her sweatshirt over her sports bra. She didn't much mind being lumped in with the outcast crowd; frankly she was used to being looked down upon by others by now, but the derisive comments still stung her self-esteem – especially when she was already having a bad day, due in part to being so bluntly turned down by the public pariah she was supposedly "associated" with.

 _Face it, girl, not even the "freak" is interested in you. What were you even thinking, blurting out something stupid like that. It must've come off as totally desperate; someone as smart as him probably doesn't want to bother spending time with some dumb blonde chick who can't even find her way around campus anyway._

She had come here to blow off some steam after being grilled on her grades in addition to the above gaffe, but now thanks to those sickening sycophants she was sorely reminded of her own poor social – and subsequently intellectual – standing. Missing culture and class (in all senses) often made her an easy scapegoat, much as she endeavored to rise above those who stooped to such low level of insult in order to make themselves appear somehow more "sophisticated". She couldn't help being a bit ruffled though, bile riling spitefully in her stomach as self-doubt simultaneously rolled about her conscience.

 _I mean come on, who are you even kidding? All you're really good at is PE and pretending to be from a decent background instead of another broken dysfunctional family. Doesn't matter what his type is, he's_ _ **way**_ _out of your league._

While she normally tried to cover up lack of conviction with clever wit, this was just the newest in a long series of successive failures (though it certainly didn't top the ultimate blunder she'd made once). Chalk another one up to the slew of screw-ups and setbacks that plagued throughout her past, piling up to the point she may as well be called the Leaning Tower of "Please Kick Me". Despite exertions to deny at least one side of her upbringing, the dominoes were stacked against her since birth. Any psychoanalyst worth his salt (assuming she could even afford one) would point to a mess of complications stemming from childhood, starting with "daddy dearest". Freud would likely have a field day with her "father figure" fixation – in the more negative than positive association. While both parental "role models" had problems with neglect in the past, it was the paternal ones that particularly persisted. Thanks to her poor excuse for a pop, she'd suffered her share of blows (both emotional and physical) that defeated and deflated a daughter's dignity, culminating in a personal vendetta against crime and clueless adults who can't even properly take care of their kids. (Which in itself was one of the reasons she sadly but firmly determined in the end to give her own offspring up for adoption.)

Objectively, it was no wonder she had terrible luck – if not taste – with men, chasing endlessly after a string of doomed relationships (and consequently consecutive rejections), sought as a self-diagnosed surrogate to replace the male attention and affection she never received growing up. …So she idly acknowledged the full irony of the situation when, in order to distract from her dejection, she considered the inadvertent advertisement mentioned earlier as a potential solace.

 _Maybe I'll go ogle some eyecandy for peace of mind._

She had promised her mom she'd come home for the weekend after all. She could stop by on her way, scope the – _ahem_ – place out a bit. From the sound of the discussion, it was located fairly close to the suburbs, and establishing affiliation with an exercise facility near her neighborhood would be pretty convenient during vacations, compared to commuting back and forth like she did in high school. (Having a certified hunk for a fitness instructor as well would just be a nice bonus, icing on the cake. Given her strict regimen, surely she deserved to treat herself to some confectionary "consolation" on the side.)

…When she stepped off the bus in the middle of Gotham's busiest shopping district though, she realized she _probably_ should've done more research into its exact whereabouts first.

 _Dear Diary, remind me to print out directions next time. Or at least a map._

As she wandered hopelessly through the streets, now without the benefit of a guide or even a destination address to go by, eventually probing enough passersby bore fruit. By the time she arrived there though (out of breath as if she had already run a marathon), the sun was starting to set. Craning her neck to gaze up at the building sign towering above her, she snorted slightly at the lofty title.

" _Out of the Nest Aerial" – what a weird name._

A bell chimed as she entered, alerting a man who was bent over some boxes in the back of the lobby (which smelled of fresh paint and renovation), apparently busy packing away some materials. He must've been surprised by a customer at this late hour, as she caught a cursory lift of his (lean yet muscular) arm to glance at a wristwatch. Still, he called pleasantly over his shoulder:

"Be right with you in a moment."

Eyeing the robust frame of his behind, she assured:

"Ah, take your time."

 _donotstareathisbuttdonotstareathisbuttdonotstareathisbutt_

Damn, those gals seriously weren't kidding about the view. …As the ass-umed target of their talk turned around though, she realized what they must have been chatting about that set off such a funny fit, following screeches with shushes. Steph felt her own face flush as she admonished herself for inappropriately zoning in from one conspicuous feature to another.

 _donotstareathiseyedonotstareathiseyedonotstareathiseye_

Despite the discernible… "deficiency" in the other's visual department, the defect didn't detract from his overall attractiveness, magnetic movie star looks unmarred by partial eclipse. One shining moon's force of gravity was sufficient enough to draw her into its depths. …If anything the shadow blocking the opposite sun's reflection only enhanced his handsome appeal by augmenting an alluring air of mystique and intrigue – a Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious if she ever saw one. Hell, the rest of his heavenly body's figure was practically flawless, revealing the results of what must've amounted to years of intense physical training. Aside from deducing self-discipline as part of his personality, he carried himself with the convivial charisma of a cheerful showman presenting some grand performance (which she vaguely recollected from her father's former game show hosting days). A voguish comportment vaguely cobbled from the kinds of classy male caricatures generally seen strutting on red carpet catwalks, peacocks fanning their feathers for their – in this case – drabber female counterparts (fans who would squeal and fall over themselves with glee if given a chance to even get within vicinity, let alone dare to lay claim of victory). Suave and stylish – if slightly synthetic. All preened plumage and perfect poses, placid and practiced. Like plastic roses, permanently planted for all to adore – parading proud and prominent down a promenade. Whose upbeat character's charm was hardly diminished as he grinned widely in greeting, the gorgeousness of such a stunning smile more than making up for any handicap. …Although she noted his gait seemed somewhat rigid for somebody of his stature, walking with a minor limp towards her. Her blush deepened as he approached, exuding a masculine musk as his powerful paw extended to shake.

"Welcome. How can I help you, miss…?"

"Brown. Stephanie Brown." She babbled rapidly, tongue tying again as she tripped over her response. "Nice booty- I mean, nice butt- I mean, nice to meet you. …You know what, I'm so sorry, I'm just gonna go."

Fortunately, he seemed to take the semi-suggestive (if perhaps politically incorrect) comment in stride, simply chuckling with unalloyed aplomb.

"Trust me, I've heard it all. Richard Grayson, at your service." The dreamboat flourished a forgiving bow, adding with a flirtatious smirk: "You can call me Dick though, all the ladies do."

 _ohmygod please stop_

"Um, I was wondering if I could check you out-" She hastily checked herself again. "Er, check out your equipment?" _God, why did that still sound so embarrassing to say._ "I was thinking of signing up to join if you've got memberships available."

"Sure, although we usually close around this time. Was just about to lock up soon actually. I'll make an exception for such a lovely little lady though."

Red crept further onto her cheeks. "Thanks, I'll just take a quick peek."

He nodded. "Feel free to look around, most of our stuff's upstairs. Would you like me to give you a special tour?"

"N-no, that's okay."

She squeaked, subduing an internal squee.

"All right. Let me know if you need anything."

She skipped swiftly up the steps, heart skipping beats. Today was turning out to be a pretty good day after all.

When she reached the upper floor though, she stopped short to see someone was unexpectedly there before her: the very person she had intentionally come to forget about.

 _What's_ _ **he**_ _doing here?_

He didn't seem to notice her presence, focused intently on a pair of uneven horizontal bars before him. Muttering something to himself under his breath, clenching his fists and flexing a few times. After the limbering stretch, he inhaled deeply before charging at his opponent, clearing the first hurdle with ease by using it as a springboard. He appeared to have some trouble latching onto the second, but managed to rectify his grip in time, righting himself as he swung up and over in a circle. Adjusting his center of weight, he settled into a handstand, still facing away from her. Gradually, he removed one palm from the pipe, impressively relying on a single limb's strength to maintain balance.

A memory pricked in the back of her mind. Gotham High. After dusk. An empty gymnasium. She had forgotten her homework at school after practice, so she hopped on her scooter and raced back. As she neared the gym though, she heard a groaning crash within, followed by an angry curse. Poking her head cautiously through the door crack, she spotted someone lying prostrate on the floormat beneath the parallel beams (which were presumably set up again by said individual after having already been put away prior), alarmingly appearing unconscious. At first she panicked, and was about to run and call for an ambulance when the comatose corpse stirred, sluggishly staggering to its feet. Despite dragging them a little, he wobbled over to take previous position at the end of the pad. Stabilizing himself, he waited a minute for dizziness to dwindle before tumbling and backflipping across the entire expanse, vaulting high into the air to land – almost, but not quite – on the mark.

While she winced in his place, he merely picked himself up and gave it another go, repeating the routine over and over, for what felt like hours. She stood there and watched with silent marvel, gaping in spellbound, slackjawed awe at each graceful arc and twist, utterly mesmerized by this bizarre boy's sheer determination to get it all precisely right – nearly bordering on desperate, if not suicidal. No matter how many times he tried though (nevermind shocking disregard for the quantity of bruises gained in the process), each attempt produced little improvement. Even if he managed to successfully pull off the whole maneuver, his hands shook so much upon descent that he still slipped off the perch – almost as if some part of his subconscious were involuntarily compelling himself to hold back. Finally, he kicked the dual poles over in frustration, storming off towards the outlet. She hurriedly ducked around a corner, but was able to get a good glimpse at his visage before he vanished.

She knew his name straightaway from face alone; everyone did. She'd seen him around in the halls, heard the whispered rumors, but had never spoken to him before. Most people strove to avoid interacting with the "world class weirdo" if they could help it, and his raging outburst at the end was admittedly a bit disturbing. …But the bitter expression of disappointment he wore as he glumly gave up became burned into her brain, ingraining irritation on his behalf. He evidently possessed extraordinary talent, yet still wasn't satisfied with himself. (Her own signature moves paled in comparison, and not even the most senior members on the team could come close to the caliber of coordination and dexterity – let alone stamina – required to execute the intricacy of the initial sequence.) No one else seemed to recognize his raw skills either; or rather, he didn't allow anyone to witness them for whatever reason. When he showed up to class the next day sporting so many injuries, everyone speculated how the infamous "delinquent" must have gotten into some kind of brawl outside of school, and steered clear even further. He didn't say anything in his defense, but she found herself privately lamenting the misunderstood look of loneliness in his eyes – that in a way felt so achingly familiar from when she'd spend her mornings carefully concealing her "loving" dad's last night beatings with makeup in the mirror.

Yet, she couldn't bring herself to openly express sympathetic sentiment. She had her own pressing business to attend to, as shortly after that she discovered she was pregnant. Her louse of a boyfriend had already long broken up with her, dumped and ditched to fend for herself as soon as the quake of '09 hit, fleeing like a coward while she stayed to try and help other survivors. Not only that, he completely skipped town in the aftermath – coincidentally for the entire duration of her gestation period – only coming back when chaos died down and the coast was clear, in all contexts. After she gave birth, he actually had the gall to try and get back together with her, but she kicked him hard in a certain place and then punched him in the face – twice – when he wouldn't stay down. (Okay, so admittedly she was taking out more aggravation at herself; maybe he didn't thoroughly deserve the brunt of such brutal treatment, but she hadn't had the best experience with guys who refused to take "no" for an answer either.)

While the calamity exposed some awful realities about human nature, she wasn't the only one who chose to remain behind to aid relief efforts. Among the scattered, smattering handful of Samaritan citizens left, she had observed another teen around her age (maybe a little younger, if his size was anything to go by). Although for an excruciating amount of time, he seemed frozen absolute, suspended animation amidst the burning wreckage. Glazed pupils in a trance, as if unable to process surroundings – before snapping out of stunned stupor into action. Festinating, fighting frantically through the frightened crowd, urgently racing to rescue as many as he could from the rubble. At one point he even recklessly risked his own life to dive under a crumbling, unstable column, reacting on impulse in order to save a small child from the structure as it collapsed. He almost looked more terrified than the toddler afterwards, whole mass trembling (and not just from the aftershock tremors), but he held the crying kid close and soothingly promised it would be okay, that they'd find his parents, that they were okay. He was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

She didn't learn who he was until later, when she and the majority of the refugee student body were relocated to Gotham Heights High nearby, since their own cheap institution was devastated beyond immediate repair. (Eventually it would be rebuilt and renamed, dedicated in honor of the late Mayor Hamilton Hill, who perished during the upheaval.) The noble sacrifice that stranger demonstrated on that day seemed a stark contrast to his cold reputation, and she admired wonderingly from afar, confused as to how someone could portray two totally different impressions in such a short span. Deep down, she was sure the brave hero she saw emerge back then was but a flicker of the real self buried underneath frigid fortress's exterior, convinced that a closed off heart was far kinder and more courageous than the owner let on.

At any rate, she had enough concerns on her own plate for the time being, dealing with the "reminder" her ex had left her of their time spent together. While she tried to keep the matter discreet, there was no way she could hide such a (literally) huge secret forever – from her mom or from faculty. When the truth came out, some of her (idiot) friends thought it was cool she was having a baby, envying the attention and constant excused absences. Others displayed their disdainful opinions on the affair, albeit in a more "indirect" manner. Maybe they were also jealous, or more likely her teammates were mad at her for having missed so many meetings under the pretense of "not feeling well" – only to announce she was officially taking an extended leave right before the big tournament, forcing them to scramble to redo the group floor routine. (They were already reluctant to let a transfer "rival" join, even though she had easily wowed their coach during tryouts.) Either way, she arrived one day to find her temp hallway locker coated in graffiti, resentful remarks ranging from "slacker" to "slut". There were worse labels as the list went on, effectively exhausting the devil's dictionary:

 _Bitch._

 _Bimbo._

 _Tramp._

 _Trollop._

 _Hussy._

 _Harlot._

 _Whore._

 _ **Dreg.**_

Some of the comments were so harsh and hurtful she couldn't – _didn't_ want to believe they came from anybody she knew. Given the setting's free access and availability, anyone could've written (and read) those things. So rather than instantly alert authority, she resolved to stake out between breaks to see if any vandals returned to the scene of the crime. …By the end of the day though, no one had come forward to gloat or claim responsibility. She was about to resign herself to letting the culprit(s) go when _he_ of all people suddenly turned up in the vacant corridor – carrying a spraycan. Crushed by the thought he could've been involved – that he was really no better than his hoodlum image – she nearly called him out then and there to give a piece of her mind… when she noticed he was also holding a rag in his other hand.

He had brought cleaning supplies.

Quickly and quietly, he set to work, applying solvent and scrubbing away all the abusive slurs, leaving the cubby sparkling new. He promptly departed without a word, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She didn't know quite what to make of this random act; lending assistance in a crisis was one thing, but for someone to go out of his way to do her a favor when they weren't even acquaintances went well above and beyond altruism in its own merit. (It _was_ possible he was erasing evidence out of remorse, but somehow she doubted that.)

She never did get a chance to ask him about it – or to thank him – as her mother marched straight into the administration office upon hearing of the incident and pulled her out for the remainder of the semester, insisting on homeschooling – at least until the fetus finished its own term. Steph had never seen her looking so strong as in that moment. The scathing, scolding speech and matronly outline she sharply cut were striking, if somewhat startling. Their relationship had always been rather rocky, what with the pill addiction and alcoholism and all-around abandonment, but almost losing one's daughter in a nigh-apocalyptic event tends to put things in perspective. Maybe she felt guilty for not fully being there for her up through adolescence, blaming herself for any shortcomings. She took the catastrophe itself as a sign of self-punishment, almost as if it were own fault rather than Mother Nature's.

Whatever the motive, she really tried after that to make up for lost contact, God bless her. She got clean – for good this time – started working double shifts at the hospital to pay for damages to the house, all the while singly supporting Stephanie through the labor and adoption proceedings. Even went on a diet and lost some weight, though they still made sure to set aside time to eat waffles together every morning. Steph wasn't sure why the woman specifically chose something that only offered empty carbs as their "healthy" bonding agent (she supposed since it was a warm, go-to comfort food; personally she was partial to mashed potatoes herself), but it became tradition, and it stuck – as did their adherence to each other, nonartificial sweetness strengthened with syrup.

When she returned to school, she was mildly more anxious to face friends than foes; to that end, she wasn't even sure where on the spectrum _"that person"_ lay. (Incidentally, she gathered he'd also spent some time "away" in the interim, which didn't do much to dispel his shameful status.) At this forgone stage, she was uncertain how to broach topics long past to someone she'd still never even had a conversation with. Plus he always seemed so… _difficult_ to approach, exuding an overwhelmingly daunting lone wolf aura. Finding courage or commonality to confront him was a bold challenge, and she always awkwardly lost her nerve whenever she came close.

Despite his history of misconduct, he was perceptibly bright – brilliant even – when it came to academics. His high exam scores earned him enrollment in accelerated classes in their senior year (although even then it seemed like he was still withholding some superior source of knowledge, moderating only enough surface energy to scrape by), and the advanced placement ahead of her only broadened the unattainable distance between them, no matter how hard she struggled to catch up… Which made it all the more astonishing that, in the end, he'd willingly accepted a spot in the same local state college rather than a private university. One might then cynically accuse her of seizing opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, but it was purely by chance she happened to secure a practical arrangement that put them in rough proximity. Ostensibly though, the only other times their paths managed to fleetingly cross outside of lecture hall took place behind separate, if adjacent bookshelves – until today's accidental encounter, that is.

As she retrospectively looked on, it seemed he couldn't sustain the stance for long, dropping posture to hang upside-down for a moment before dismounting. Again, some kind of subliminal instinct seemed to kick in before he hit the ground, and he stumbled with a heated swear. She clapped politely in appreciation though, and he jolted at the noise. Swerving, he snapped without warning:

"Damnit, will you quit bugging me?!"

Her hands halted, shocked by the sudden shout. He blinked as he registered the spectator, growing more mortified as he became aware of his error.

"Shit. Sorry, I- thought you were someone else."

"It's okay. I didn't mean to startle you."

He gulped and shuffled uneasily, steadying respiration before attempting to start over.

"So. It's you again, huh."

 _Hello to you too._

"Hey. Fancy meeting you here. We just keep running into each other today, don't we?" She ventured what she hoped came off as a friendly jibe to defuse tension, though there was some genuine suspicion behind it. "You wouldn't be secretly stalking me, would you?"

He didn't fall for it. Rather than take the bait, he instead reached casually for a water bottle on the bench beside his bookbag, relatively unfazed by the half-serious allegation.

"That's my line." His tone was almost eerily calm compared to before, as he unscrewed the cap and nonchalantly took a swig. "I could inquire the same of you, I've got a legitimate reason to be here."

"Oh really. And what would that be?"

He jerked his head towards the staircase, jabbing a thumb for emphasis. "The guy downstairs? He's my older brother."

She squinted, distinguishing some physical resemblance now that he brought it up. "You two are related?"

 _That… explains a lot actually._

"Not by blood," he clarified. "He was also adopted by Mr. Wayne at one point, so technically that makes us step-siblings."

There was a pronounced privation of fondness in the terse, formal way he delicately articulated their former guardian's designation, tongue tart and taut as a tightrope. She hazily recalled reading about the second sensation in the tabloids at the time (alongside an exposé detailing the new ward's scandalous criminal record).

"Oh right, I saw a, um, documentary on T.V. about that. …Wait, you mean _he's_ Grayson as in 'The Flying Graysons'? The famous circus act?"

"You didn't see all the posters in the lobby?"

He pointed over her shoulder at a giant flyer pasted over partition, the enormous wall scroll unambiguously inflating the centerpiece's ego.

"…Ah. Guess I must've been, er, distracted."

Irises rolled in exasperation, as if expecting such a reply. "He tends to have that effect on people."

Curious concentration transferred from the glossy print back to him as he begrudgingly murmured this. Hard to think the two were connected to each other, if tangentially. Like day and night, they were. Tentatively, she tried to gear the dialogue in a different direction, nudging towards an encouraging compliment.

"So that's how you picked up all the acrobatic stuff?"

"Uh- yeah. Something like that." He winced and rubbed the back of his neck, still seeming uncomfortable with the subject.

"You're really good at it. That was pretty amazing, what you did just now. You should consider joining the gymnastics team, the males' division could probably use some support. I hear it's in danger of being cut to provide more funding for contact sports." She scoffed inwardly. _Like those jocks need any more budget._

He simply shrugged. "I'm not that great. My brother's better." …It was pretty plain to see he had a heavily severe inferiority complex. Remarkably though, sourness seemed to subside as a reminiscent, reverent mist remotely shrouded his vision, looking longingly at the faded ruby and gold costume. "You know he's the only person in the world who can perform a quadruple somersault?" There was a touch of envious excitement in his tenor as he placed a hand on the worn placard, smoothing over wrinkles in the parchment. "…Or he used to be anyway, before the- accident."

"…Is that also how he lost his eye?"

The clouded veil instantaneously evaporated.

"Sorry. Was just wondering."

A voice emanated from the stairwell:

"It's all right. I don't mind you asking."

The two turned to see the proprietor poised at the top of stairs, leaning over the railing as he took in the picture with an inscrutable countenance.

"It happened during the quake. Was trying to help some victims trapped in a bus underneath the highway. Got hit by falling debris in an aftershock. …Pretty dumb, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that. That was really heroic of you."

Meanwhile, her other company said nothing, but shot a peculiar look at his brother, who merely beamed benignly back. There was a blank, stony sort of quality to both their semblances though. Impenetrable. Stephanie had the inexplicable feeling she was intruding on some mute, confidential exchange between the two, and decided now would probably be a good time to excuse herself.

"…Anyway, would you look at the time. Guess I should get going. It's getting late, and my mom's expecting me."

"Of course. Thank you for stopping by, we hope to see you back again."

"I'm sure you will. …Oh, one more question before I go: How do I get to Widowstone Creek from here?"

A brief description of bearings later, Stephanie strolled out the door, now confidently armed with coordinates. The manager waved with a sunny smile as she left – though it might've been her imagination, but the salutation seemed a tad subdued as opposed to earlier reception.

"Bye now! Take care."

He subtly elbowed his younger sibling, who sullenly put up a lethargic hand as well.

"Bye."

 _Really, could those two be any more different._

The sky had grown grim, but she was still able to navigate her way around well enough as she approached an area she was accustomed to. She had been right about the place being close to her house, it shouldn't take her long to get there. …Although now that she knew where she was headed, she opted at the last minute to cut through a back alley to get to her block without further delay – which turned out to be a colossal, costly mistake.

"Well well, what have we here?"

Stephanie stiffened as she heard the thrum of throaty sniggers and motorbikes, headlights peering through the gloom as they illuminated a score of whitewashed faces, arrayed in garish garb; bright polka dot and patchwork patterns that were even more blinding (like looking through a psychedelic kaleidoscope, or experiencing a bad trip on some of her mom's pills). She would've been amused by their gaudy guises, if not for the gleaming assortment of weapons they wielded: knives, chains, clubs, hammers, pipes, bats, and of all things – a spiked rubber chicken, which was the only thing that didn't seem ridiculously out of place in this scenario. (Scratch that, they still looked ridiculous.) Brazenly brandishing rusted iron and brass to match their brash appearance, lurid and leering. She'd seen reports of their mischievous miscreant behavior on the news, but had never directly run into them before. Outlying residential regions weren't typically their turf. …But of course today _had_ to be the day they chose to terrorize her territory instead.

 _Dear Diary, remind me never to try taking a shortcut again. …Assuming I even make it out of this mess alive, that is._

She thought as she backed up slowly, finding herself fenced in by whooping hyenas, sneering and snickering as they encircled their prey. A gang of hellion hooligans, rebel riffraff risen up out of the ashes and anarchy following the cataclysm – even more enormous fashion disasters taking after their borrowed namesake:

Jokerz.

* * *

 _Clowns are here to let you know_  
 _Where you let your senses go_  
 _Clowns all around you  
It's a cross I need to bear  
_

* * *

No Alvin Draper sorry. =P

Apologies if there are any timeline mistakes. Originally I wasn't sure whether I wanted to include the earthquake as part of the story, but there's evidence one did take place in the DCAU, and it ended up being a convenient trigger for several plot points. I imagine a major quake did occur in the interim bw BTAS and BB, but it wasn't severe enough to warrant a complete government-sanctioned shut-down period of "No Man's Land" in Gotham.


	5. Straw and Gold

Happy Mother's Day!

* * *

 _I never thought it would be me_  
 _Held so high, f_ _ell so far_  
 _Mother may I lay my head down_  
 _I'm a falling star_

-Vanessa Carlton, "Superhero"

* * *

 _Now._

After he hung up with Dick, Tim rang the house bell, and shortly a dark-skinned man answered the door, sporting a somewhat surprised but pleasant enough smile.

"Hi, Sam. Sorry to bother you so late. …Is Barbara home?"

Sam nodded and called over his shoulder.

"Hon, it's for you."

A red-haired woman wearing a silken robe and nightgown emerged from the kitchen at the summon, looking equally bemused at first but switched to concern upon seeing the visitor.

"Hey, Tim. What's up? Is everything all right?"

Tim shuffled his feet in the entryway, eyes sliding towards the other present company, who took the hint without offense.

"Bat stuff, I'm assuming? No problem, I'll leave you two to talk."

He politely excused himself, and Barbara approached to look the lad over more closely.

"Come in, let's go to the living room. …What happened to your chin?"

"Huh? Oh, I got punched in the face." Tim rubbed at his bruised jaw absently. He'd taken worse hits before, but it still stung pretty hard. Girl had a mean jab for someone her size, he'll give her that.

Noting the alarm in her eyes, he hastily clarified: "It's not what you think. Steph's the one who hit me."

Unfortunately this didn't do much to assuage her anxiousness. Barbara shook her head, clearly even more confused by such an obscure declaration out of the blue.

"Why don't we put some ice on that first, and then you can tell me what happened."

A few minutes of fussing later, Tim had a comforting cool pack wrapped in wet towel pressed to his cheek to help keep the swelling and soreness down. This used to be a normal nightly routine for them, although it was usually Alfred who insisted on treating every one of his minor injuries (despite defiant and indignant protests of _"I'm_ _ **fine**_ _. Jeeze, will you quit worrying?"_ ).

Barbara sat across from him on the sofa as she poured some tea and handed him the heated mug, which he graciously accepted with his other open hand. She took a sip from her own cup before inquiring quietly:

"So. Care to tell me what this is all about?"

Tim paused, peering deep into the porcelain well at its embossed roots. Stirring, swirling leaves and herb stalks. Stalling. Watching the drifting debris slowly settle to the bottom, before setting the beverage down without drinking any.

"It's her. Stephanie. …She's the Spoiler."

"I see."

"…You don't sound too surprised."

Barbara placed her own warm water vessel down, delicately turning it a few degrees on the coaster.

"I had my suspicions. She wouldn't be the first to get into this business because of her father. …Albeit for entirely different reasons."

She glanced towards a dignified portrait hanging on the wall, portraying a kind, elderly countenance belonging to the previous Commissioner (who was currently enjoying his retirement to the fullest by taking up gardening). Commanding reverent space over the fireplace, more miscellaneous family photographs lining the mantle. Tim traced her sightline, moistening his tongue.

"Say, your dad wouldn't happen to keep any smokes around here, would he?"

"I thought you quit."

"So did I."

She shot him a firm denial. "Even if we had any – and believe me I know where he typically tries to hide them – I wouldn't give any to you."

"I know. Just figured I'd ask."

He was deflecting, purposefully delaying discussion, she could tell. That habit of beating around the bush was something all the private clubhouse boys shared in common. She wondered if it was Bruce's influence. Trying to get them to expose – if not verbally express – their real emotions was like extracting teeth, and as much as she cared and coaxed and coddled, mothering after them was an exhausting task sometimes. It often took persistent pestering – and a _ton_ of patience – in order to get anywhere. Thus she adamantly attempted to steer the conversation back to its original source.

"Tim, we're getting off track." The best way to deal with reticent dodging and/or oral gymnastics, she found, was to just bluntly call the target on it. Discretion wasn't the better part of valor in this case.

Tim swallowed, keeping vision trained on his drained visage's reflection in the glass coffee table in front of them.

"A part of me probably knew all along, I just… didn't want to believe it." He sank his forehead into his free palm. "Of all people in the world… Why did it have to be _her_?"

"I did try to warn her. Multiple times. She won't listen to the police."

"She won't listen to me either. I told her, about me being…"

Barbara fixed him with a rapt, expectant gaze.

"And? How'd she take it?"

"Not well, obviously."

"…Did you tell her everything?"

" _Hell_ no."

Sympathy converted to stern seriousness.

"Tim, you can't keep avoiding this forever. Sooner or later she's eventually gonna learn how dangerous the streets are – especially for a rookie without formal training – and you don't want it to be through the hard way. It's not healthy to keep things bottled up either. …Believe me, that fear eats away at you. I told Sam as soon as things started getting serious between us. Trust me, if you want this to still work out between you, to make it last, you have to be open with your partner. Honesty is key to being in a relationship."

Tim suppressed a mild scoff, casting an ironic look in her direction. "Dick said the same thing."

Her lips twitched, tautening a tad at the corners.

"Well. He's not wrong."

"Oh, he says 'hi' by the way."

Barbara sighed, rolling her eyes a bit. "Still treating you as the messenger, huh? Figures. Sorry for always making you mediate."

"It's all right, I get it. Are you two _ever_ going to reconcile though?"

"That largely depends on him at this point. I made my peace a long time ago. Whether he wants to forgive me or not now is up to him." Her expression softened. "…How's he doing anyway?"

Tim shrugged. "Same as always. Doing what he does best."

"Being a selfish, egotistical jerk who can't commit to anything to save his life?"

"…Sure, let's go with that. I was gonna say 'running away from all his problems', but your way works too."

"What about you? How long do you plan to keep running?"

Tim clenched his fist.

"What else can I do? I mean, what the hell am I even supposed to _say_ to her, Babs?"

"Try the truth, maybe."

"Oh yeah, like that'll go over well. So basically you want me to admit that I used to be even crazier than I am now – that I _killed_ a man? That I almost killed _Batman_?"

"That you had a bad thing happen to you, and you don't want something similar befalling her. Joker may have made you go down a dark path once, but you're better now."

Tim's eyes skewed askance.

"I'm not so sure about that last part." He clutched the coldness tighter, cubic angles digging acutely into his flesh. "When we fought, I… I could feel myself slipping back. Couldn't control myself. Couldn't even tell the difference between her or some random criminal. It was like I completely lost hold on reality, on any sense of reason. Forgot my own strength even. I nearly seriously hurt her, Babs." He hung his head on confession, whispering fearfully. "Maybe… Maybe I really do belong in Arkham."

"Don't say that, Tim."

"Why not? It's what you all thought back then, wasn't it?" There was a crack as frigid crystals crunched under his grip, crushing in anger and resentment. "Back when you had to keep me locked in my room for hours with a freakin' _straightjacket_ just so I wouldn't harm anyone."

"That wasn't you. You were still under effects of the Joker toxin. It's not your fault."

"How can you be absolutely certain?"

The awkward silence that followed confirmed his suspicion.

"…That's what I thought."

"Tim, you _know_ I know how you feel. After the Scarecrow incident, every time I had a relapse it was like the world stopped making sense. Everything felt so surreal. Unreal. It's terrifying as hell, any little thing could set me off. _I_ almost accidentally shot at my partner once."

"…Except I can't just clock out for a few days and feel totally fine afterwards, now can I?"

He stared sullenly at his still, lone likeness on the mirrored countertop again, spite spiking against his will.

"Tim…"

She started as he stood up suddenly and slammed his hand against the surface, causing containers' contents to spill onto the carpet.

"Quit trying to compare us, Barb. You have _no_ idea what it's like, living in a constant state of fear – of everything and everyone – including yourself. You don't know _half_ the crap I've been through just to convince myself that I wouldn't be better off dead, that I shouldn't just end it all by killing myself. _You_ don't have to deal with _him_ in your head 24/7. Don't have to struggle to keep your sanity – _reality_ – in check on a daily basis. You got your friggin' perfect happy ending: a flashy, fancy badge and trophy husband. So stop complaining and-" he choked on bitterness, "pretending to act like you _understand_. Like you even care. As if you actually give a shit about what happens to me when all you were interested in was those two. That's what you really wanted, wasn't it? For me to be out of the way so you could get in both those guys' godamn pants."

Barbara balled her knuckles, biting her quivering lip. She knew the abrupt blow-up was just him lashing out – venting pent-up negativity – but the cutting comments still stabbed at her heart and gut, pushing her close to the verge of crying. Over the edge of her own emotions.

"Tim, you know that's not true."

"Isn't it?" he spat acidly. "I was never really part of the 'family picture', it was all just one giant game to you. Admit it, I bet you're ashamed to even be associated with me now, Mrs. Big-Shot Commissioner Gordon."

His voice was rising in rage, almost shouting at lungs' upper limits.

"Please, try to calm down…"

"Don't tell me what to do. You're not my fucking _mom_."

"…You really think I didn't _care_? That I got off scott-free? Tim, _I_ still have nightmares about Arkham. Not a day goes by where I don't feel guilty. Every day, I think about what I might've done differently. How I should've been there. Should've been more alert, more attentive to you. Kept you safe. Hell, if anything, I felt like I was always the odd one out. Like I constantly had to prove myself, show I was good enough to run with the big boys. You don't know how tough it was to get those two to trust me, to look at me, notice my own accomplishments. Treat me like an equal. How long it took me to _earn_ their respect. And as soon as I felt like I was finally being accepted – acknowledged – _appreciated_ – I dropped the ball. Couldn't protect even one person precious to me. Wounded the ones closest, made an enormously dumb mistake I can't take back, that resulted in an even huger mess."

She took a deep breath, tears welling behind the rupturing dam.

"I know you always idolized Bruce and Dick more than me, but that doesn't mean I didn't still want to be considered part of the gang too, you know? To make a good impression, be a cool big sis or whatever. To teach someone else, another newbie for once. It was my responsibility to set a better example, yet I screwed it all up. Sometimes I can't help but feel like – if I hadn't entered your lives, broken up all those chummy male 'bromance' bonds by coming between them, disrupted the duo's dynamics by trying to force my way into your secret little brigade circle – then maybe none of this would've happened. You'd still be a team without me. You can hate me all you want, I deserve it. For failing to watch over you, for destroying what was left – of everything we worked so hard for. For being a _'distraction'_ to the so-called _'mission'_."

She buried her face in her hands, bursting into stifled sobs. Tim scaled back in stunned remorse, dialing down his temper as he declined onto resting again, opting for a spot on the couch next to her rather than the armchair opposite. Tentatively, he put an arm around her shoulder as he drew her into a shuddering, half-embrace. He let her lean her temple against his chest, weeping openly onto his shirt.

"Look, Babs, I didn't mean what I said, to make you feel this bad. I don't blame you for what happened. Forgive me, I was just taking frustration out on you. I don't hate you. …I really looked up to you too, you know. I still do. You were – _are_ important to me. So please stop crying."

She sniffed and swiped a sleeve across her lashes, smearing mascara as she forged a fraction of a smile.

"That's sweet, but you should really reserve saying that kind of thing to your girlfriend, you know. People might get the wrong idea."

She was only teasing, but he turned a faint tinge of pink and looked away, coughing. She could hardly contain amusement at such a cute reaction. Kid was still so innocently transparent.

"I want to. Tell her how I feel – explain to her about everything. I thought about it so many times. I'm just… scared I'm gonna end up losing her either way, Barb."

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, which had grown out in recent years. Despite his apparent purity, she idly noted he really had matured into a fine, handsome young man – almost the spitting image of Dick when they were dating. It made her nostalgic, and for a brief moment – regretful for letting that one go, slip by without trying to chase after. Lost her own former love by letting him walk away.

Tim definitely wasn't Dick though (or Bruce for that matter), from the shy way he still endeavored to show compassion to everyone, demonstrating his good will and generosity through more gentle, modest means. (Sam was similar; hushed and humble, but a dedicated crusader for peace and justice in his own right.) It ached that he had so little self-confidence, that regardless of pardon, it was partly because of her he didn't believe in himself anymore, lost all hope and passion – love for his own life. Self-esteem shattered beyond repair, faith faltering when none of it was his fault.

While worlds different from Dick now in the diffidence department, he was devoted to the same core values – even after all that he'd been through, including a much harsher upbringing. (She could still recall the burning desire and excitement to join them that day he arrived in the cave, dreaming of being a hero despite – or perhaps because of – his sinful past.) The boy deserved so much better. …They both did. Stephanie would be the crazy one not to see what a catch she had, how kind and strong he really was underneath the façade.

"You never know, she might surprise you."

She patted his hand consolingly, and his hue deepened to a crimson shade as he became increasingly aware of how close their contact was. Shifting to the border of the cushion to put some distance between them, he fumbled as he reached for the forgotten frozen pad, now partially melted at this point.

 _Yep, definitely still a virgin._

She snorted a smothered giggle, and he puzzled at her unexpected laughter.

"What's so funny?

"Nothing," she chuckled. "It's just… We really did make a good team once, didn't we? I mean, we _were_ a real team, right? Weren't we? The two of us weren't just tag-alongs or replacements."

It was Tim's turn to clumsily reassure.

"Yeah. Of course we were a team."

Drawing knees up to the divan, she hugged them to her breast as she let her bare legs dangle off the side. (Again, she observed a nervous blush as he narrowly averted his eyes in embarrassment.)

"…No matter what any of us did, it was never enough though, was it?"

"No. No it wasn't."

She exhaled, the release of pressure profound and prolonged. "For him, there only ever _was_ the mission. In the end, that's all he really cared about. …I realize that now."

Tim regarded his toes. "Guess we all had to learn at some point. At least you were lucky enough not to end up with scars to show for it."

Unlike before, there was genuine sincerity behind the statement. He still caught himself and apologized anyway for any lingering sarcasm.

"That came out kinda wrong, I'm sorry. For yelling at you before, and-" he looked at the stain on the floor, "for ruining your rug. I'll clean it up."

"It's all right, don't bother. Leave it." She inhaled. "Just… Let it be. We were thinking of remodeling soon anyway. Add some skylights, maybe move a larger desk and some bookshelves into here, convert the room into a study. I do kinda miss my job at the library."

"If you need help with the furniture, I wouldn't mind lending a hand. Just give me a buzz, I'll be there."

Barbara beamed as she extended a limb to lightly ruffle Tim's hair, like she and Dick used to often do to his annoyance (but secretly she could tell he was pleased whenever he managed to impress them, receive congratulations for a job well done). …After Arkham, he wouldn't allow himself to be touched like that by anyone for a long time, but he stayed still as she stroked his bangs soothingly.

"Thanks. You're a real good kid, you know that?"

He flushed again, but didn't contest.

"It's no problem. What are friends for? Besides, I know Sam's not exactly the 'heavy-lifting' type."

"Hey now, that hurts my pride as a man. That _is_ my lovely wife you're speaking to, you know. …Although I'm sure she could wipe the floor with me if she wanted to."

The two turned in startled unison to see Sam standing in the entryway. Tim immediately propelled back and cleared his throat, panicked for a number of reasons.

"Ah… My timing sucks, doesn't it? Did I happen to come in at a bad moment?" Fortunately, the tone of the older man's voice was more humoring than threatened. "Sorry to interrupt, but I think there's something the two of you should see."

He pointed towards the window, and Barbara stood up as Tim curiously followed. Pulling back the curtain, both paled upon seeing a familiar symbol lighting up the night sky.

"What the hell…?"

Sam hovered hesitantly behind them.

"I take it you didn't authorize this?"

Barbara shook her head.

"The signal's not been in use since Dad retired. This goes completely against protocol."

Tim meanwhile, was gaping with wide horror as recognition gradually dawned.

"…That stupid _idiot_!"

His hands shook in sinking comprehension, cold compress slipping from slackened grasp. The plastic bag's terrycloth cover unraveled as it hit the ground, scattering pieces of its makeshift contents everywhere.

"No, no, this _can't_ be happening. I have to stop her before it's too late."

He took a trembling step back- then took off, dashing for the front door.

"Tim, wait! Sam, hurry and stop him!"

He was gone before either of them could fully react though, slamming the exit behind him. Barbara was about to pursue when she heard the phone ring – no doubt from someone on the force since her radio was back at the station (today was supposed to be her day off after all). She picked up the portable from the stand and pushed to talk.

"Gordon."

" _Oi, Commish, what gives? I thought we were done with this Bat freak business."_

There was only one officer who spoke that way, breaching the book's code of conduct to address a superior in such a derogatory manner.

"Tell everyone to keep away from the roof of the department, Detective Bullock. I repeat: Inform _all_ units to stand down. Do _not_ go on the roof."

" _Look, I may have deferred to your dad out of respect, but I ain't takin' orders from some little girl when it comes to this Bat baloney nonsense. If that stinkin' sack o' guano so much as sets foot anywhere near the station…"_

"Just trust me on this, Harvey. Don't try to interfere, and don't let anyone else get involved either. Please, this is important. I need you to do me this one favor."

"… _All right. But I'm only doing this 'cuz of your old man. I give it 10 minutes before I bust up there and put out the damn light for good, Bat or no Bat."_

"Thank you."

As she terminated the line, Sam supportively rested his hands on her own slumped shoulders. She rotated and gave him a swift peck, petting his cheek.

"I gotta go, babe."

"I understand."

She raced to her closet to get dressed as fast as she could. Hopefully she had bought enough time at least – for what precisely, she wasn't sure. But this – she thought as she grabbed her coat and a couple other items before rushing out – was something that needed to play out its course. …For better or for worse.

* * *

 _And if I ever could have faked it, oh it would show_  
 _And if I ever could have made it, would I be gold?_

 _I never wanted to be what they even wanted me to be_  
 _Now this story ends untainted, without me..._

* * *

In Batman Beyond #13, it's revealed Barbara experiences severe relapses every few years from the Scarecrow toxin she was hit with in "Over the Edge". To combat the terrors, she has to take a treatment that causes her to sleep for a few days, during which she at least wouldn't suffer through the nightmares. (Basically everyone in the DCAU ended up permanently damaged in some way - if not physically then psychologically.)

...On a completely unrelated note, this has nothing to do with Batman but on the subject of "mothers", I am still shooketh after that SU reveal. Send help.


	6. Charivari

In which Dick is surprisingly racist towards clones.

* * *

 _Two birds on a wire_  
 _One says "come on" and the other says "I'm tired"_  
 _The sky is overcast and I'm sorry_  
 _One more or one less_  
 _Nobody's worried_

-Regina Spektor, "Two Birds"

* * *

 _Then._

Once their guest had left, Tim turned to Dick with a wounded air.

"How about giving me some warning next time before someone shows up, huh? A little heads-up would've been nice."

Dick's smile didn't falter.

"What, did she catch you doing something embarrassing?"

Tim skewered him a look of disgust.

"Do you have to make _everything_ sound dirty?"

"Sorry, sorry. …I'm surprised you're still doing _'that'_ after all these years though."

Tim shrugged with a heavy sigh. "Was just testing to see if I still could, I guess. I messed up on the landing anyway."

"You probably just need to work on your form some more. It _has_ been a while since I last saw you brush up on any techniques, they're bound to get a bit rusty. If you want, I can still coach you…"

Tim's lips tightened.

"Forget it. It's not worth it."

"Are you sure? That girl seemed pretty impressed by it. She's the one you were talking about earlier, right?" Dick nodded in sage observation. "She's cute; nice face, decent rack- ow!" He rubbed his arm as it was abruptly met with an annoyed punch. "Hey, it was a compliment."

"…Didn't sound like one."

"Would you prefer I said she has a mighty fine ass?" He waggled his brows and grinned provocatively, despite wincing from the pain. Kid could still hit pretty hard when he wanted to. "Not as fine as mine though."

"Shut up before I shove a dumbbell up there."

Dick clutched his behind in mock dread at the threat.

"Seriously though, she's obviously into you."

Tim rolled his eyes. "The way I see it, from where I'm standing, she's more into you."

"Oh ho, do I detect a note of jealousy?"

"No," Tim denied hotly, though his cheeks told a different story. "It's just that you're being super-gross about it. You know you're acting like Bruce by coming onto every giddy schoolgirl and her mom who walks in through the door."

Dick's smirk jerked slightly.

"Wow, okay dude, we're really going there." It was his turn to be hurt by insensitivity. "You didn't need to go _that_ far. I'll have you know this and that are completely different."

"How so?"

"I approach these things from a sole marketing perspective. Purely professional. It's called 'show business', bro."

"Uh-huh. This coming from the guy who just lied about his scars to make himself look good. I suppose 'that's' also part of your advertising strategy?"

"Hey, it's not like it was a total lie. That really did happen, you know – minus the 'falling debris' part. …Besides, what else would you have me say?"

Tim shook his head, keeping his voice low. "…I don't know."

Dick seized on the telling silence. "You _are_ attracted to her, aren't you?"

"I am not."

"It's okay, I can see why. It's all right to admit these things, you know. You don't have to hide it."

"I'm not _hiding_ anything."

The firm, yet flustered defiance only further confirmed Dick's suspicion.

"Heh heh, little Timmy's got a crush~"

He tousled Tim's hair teasingly, to which the boy scowled.

"I do _not_." He pushed the invading hand away in indignation. "Will you cut that out already? I'm not a kid anymore."

Dick lowered his limb in disappointment.

"Okay, okay. Sorry." Despite insistence otherwise, it delighted Dick that Tim was finally exhibiting some of the youthful desire – if not exuberance – he'd missed out on through his teenage years. "Trust me though, I have no interest in someone her age. She's all yours."

"Look, will you just _drop_ it?" Tim snapped bluntly. "It's none of your freakin' _business_."

Dick exhaled, clicking his tongue. If only Tim could be more honest with his feelings, true to himself – though he was painfully aware of how excruciatingly difficult that must be, what with everything the boy had been through. To be fair, he had his own troubles genuinely opening his heart to others, after all the times it had been broken and betrayed before. …He could only imagine how _terrifying_ it must be for Tim, to allow someone else – a complete and total stranger – to get close by entering into his currently (semi-)stable and secure – if supremely secluded life, experience that kind of risky emotion again. Breach the many walls and defensive barriers he had set up around himself, upset the plainly precarious balance that was still a struggle to barely maintain. So as much as he wanted to continue coaxing and clowning – kidding around, he agreed to leave it alone for now, raising both palms in admitted defeat.

"Okay, I get it. I won't bother you about it anymore."

The subject successfully dismissed, Tim attuned towards the boxes in the back.

"So did you want me to help with moving this stuff or what?"

"Yeah, I needed to clear out some old things to make space for new equipment. Trying to tidy up the place more, getting rid of useless junk and whatnot. …Although most of it's probably going up to the storeroom in the attic anyway. Sorry to bother you for this; I'd do all the lifting myself, but with my back…"

"Don't mention it, it's the least I can do to repay you."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

Tim knelt by one of the cartons as Dick set to work sifting and sorting, organizing according to some arbitrary system that ostensibly only made sense to him.

"Christ, how much crap do you _have_ here? Seriously, what even _is_ half this junk? I knew you had all kinds of odd ends lying around, but I didn't realize it amounted to this much. Do you _ever_ throw anything away?"

Dick shrugged.

"What can I say, I'm a hoarder by nature. Keeping keepsakes is my hobby. …Well, more like a habit, I guess. Why do you think we had a trophy room in the basement? It wasn't originally Bruce's idea, I can tell you that."

Tim remained quiet as he poked through a large collection of CDs, containing a few recognizable but mostly random titles by various indie bands and artists he'd never heard of.

"Man, you've got weird taste in music."

"Hey, don't knock the classics. Those are precious goods, be careful with those."

In spite of his scoffing, Tim picked up one of the discs that appealed to him, and was almost about to subconsciously slip the item under his oversized hoodie – an old, old habit of his own – before remembering he didn't have to resort to sneaking or stealing when he could just ask.

"Can I borrow this?"

Dick didn't even twist to look, implicitly trusting in his little brother's judgment. "Yeah sure, go ahead."

Tim breathed out in relief as he pocketed the prize with permission. That was a close call. Borderline kleptomaniac compulsions hadn't surfaced like that in a long time, but then, it was only another minor checkbox on the extensive, exhaustive list of psychotic symptoms he was suffering from today.

There was another entry that caught his eye, different from the others. It had no hard case or album cover; just a plain, simple jacket labeled with marker:

 _For Babs._

Tim wondered if it was a mix tape – surely Dick wouldn't have tried to record something himself? He couldn't tell whether it was a gift Dick planned to give but never worked up the courage to – or something Barbara sent back after (one of numerous) breakup(s).

…Maybe Joker was right. Being in love with someone seemed like way more hassle than it was worth. Hell, just watching those two go back and forth between affection and anger even back then was tiring. Aggravating.

At any rate, he left burning curiosity alone, not wanting to intrude too much on Dick's privacy (years ago he would've taunted his brother with the juicy bit of exposing bait himself, but that was then, when he was less mature and still found amusement in such things), and moved on to another container. As soon as he saw the contents inside, he balked a bit, heartbeat spiking. Aching. It was a family photo album, full of fond memories from the Flying Graysons' circus days. His hands trembled as he flipped tentatively through the pages, unable to tear away even though it made him uncomfortable for a number of reasons. Paranoid of polaroids. Anything involving camerawork tended to make him queasy, though he could typically tolerate homages to others at least. These were different from the blown-up, polished posters on the wall though; the images portrayed within were more intimate, unscripted. Candid, captured moments of a close-knit clan, happy as a clam – treasured remnants of childhood innocence and bliss combined with parental pampering.

" _This must have been such a cool place to grow up."_

"… _It was."_

Glancing back at the receptacle, buried at the bottom was another set of snapshots: a framed photograph of Dick and Barbara together (him smiling smugly straight at her in puppy-like adoration while she beamed brightly at the viewer instead), and a worn print of the former in graduation garb next to Bruce, who had his paw wrapped proudly on the other's shoulder. Scrawled on the top left-hand corner in Bruce's surprisingly haphazard handwriting was a short congratulatory message:

 _Good luck at college, Dick._

Tim recalled how Dick told him the story of Bruce missing his graduation from Gotham State University, shortly before the two split up as Batman and Robin. (…The old man never even bothered to come to his own high school ceremony – not that Tim was expecting him to – although Dick and Barbara both did attend at least, albeit sitting at opposite ends of the auditorium.)

" _It was building for a long time. I realize that now. …It was never really right. I mean,_ _ **this**_ _isn't exactly a normal childhood."_

He hadn't really comprehended the notion then, but Tim understood now what those words meant – unfortunately all too well.

Tim sensed a shadow behind him, and for a brief instant, he half-envisioned it being Bruce from the way it loomed – but of course when he revolved around it was only Dick instead.

"Yo, you all right? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Yeah, I'm fine." Tim looked down at the scrapbook in his lap, a wistful mist in his eyes. "I was just… thinking I don't really have any pictures of my folks. At least none where we're all together." _Or that isn't a mugshot_ , he thought sullenly to himself. "I never saw my dad keep any mementos of Mom after she died. To be honest, I'm not sure I even still remember what she looks like."

Dick plopped down on the ground next to him, resting a hand on the boy's sagged shoulder.

"Listen, I hope you know: No matter what, you can always think of the two of us as family at least. I know I haven't exactly been that much of a great guardian myself, that I could never replace what you lost either… But you are still a brother to me. Hell, I consider you the closest thing to a real relative I've had since then."

Tim simply nodded, swallowing a lump in his gorge. Dick patted his back with a thump.

"Us guys, we gotta stick together, right? Through thick and thin."

"Yeah." Tim ducked his neck towards his collar, surreptitiously drying ducts on his sweatshirt. "…Thanks, you know, for letting me stay here so long. Roy and Conner too."

"Hey, what are friends for?" A pause. "…How's Conner doing by the way?"

Tim snorted, the caution in the other's tone not escaping his notice. "What do you care? You never liked him anyway."

"That's not true. It's just… The whole idea of cloning someone kinda wigs me out, okay? I dunno, imagining there being a duplicate copy of you running around is freaky enough, but one of _Superman_? It still doesn't sit well with me to leave him loose like that, after all the underhanded crap Cadmus has pulled. Something about it just doesn't seem right. Who's to say he doesn't have some secret kill switch that'll make him go rogue like Supergirl's doppelganger? Gotham may be full of crazies and creeps, but at least we never really had to deal with stuff of metahuman caliber aside from Ivy and Clayface, or Kirk when he took the serum." Dick intentionally didn't include Killer Croc on the atypical rogues roster; guy was too dumb a criminal to count. "We're on the high end of the 'weird' scale, sure, but not even Batman's equipped to take down a serious superpowered menace alone."

Tim glared at him in disbelief.

"Is that you talking, or the old man?"

"…Maybe a bit of both," Dick willingly conceded. "Look, I'm just worried, that's all."

"Yeah well, don't be. I've got Mr. Kent on speed-dial, and Kon gave me his full consent to use the Kryptonite at my discretion as part of our 'roommate agreement'. If anything happens, he told me himself he wants me to hit him with it as hard as I can." …Even if it meant killing him – although Tim knew he could never go through with that _._ Not again. "Besides, it's not _him_ you're actually worried about, is it?"

"Tim…"

"No, you know what this is?" Tim clenched his fist, drawing away from contact again. "You look at him with the same way you do me – like some ticking time bomb about to explode. I'm getting real sick and tired of it."

"It's not like that."

"Sure it isn't. Look, for your information, Conner's doing fine. Hell, he pretty much behaves just like you; he's probably getting wasted and chasing after chicks at some mixer right now. …That's what you call a 'normal college life', isn't it?"

Dick cleared his throat, aversely acknowledging hypocrisy.

"…What about you? How is school going? Do you like it there?"

Tim shrugged.

"It's okay."

"You know you didn't have to just stick locally around here. If you wanted to go someplace else I would've sponsored you. I mean, I chose to stay close to Gotham because of that… 'part-time job' stuff, but you're smart, you could've gone anywhere better."

"I told you, I'm fine with this."

"What about taking that girl's suggestion at least? Life doesn't just have to be about books and studying for tests all the time either, you know. Look at it this way: You've got the time and opportunity now to be a part of after-class club activities that I never had. Why not take advantage of it, get out there and socialize. Enjoy the excitement of your youth and all that."

Tim stared, trying unsuccessfully to read the other's expression. He couldn't deduce whether the dude was just being humorously sarcastic, or genuinely envious and attempting to live vicariously through him. Either way, he wasn't falling for it.

"I _said_ forget it."

Dick kept pressing despite disengagement, earnest in his endeavor to tempt Tim to pursue what used to fill the boy with fervent passion, desperately hoping to rekindle some kind of joyful spark.

"Come on, I'm sure it'll be fun. I bet I could even still teach you to do a quadruple somersault if you're interested."

"Why? I suck at it."

"You just need more practice. …Besides, it'd be kind of a shame to let a legacy die out without passing it on to at least one person."

Tim wavered at the sincere, if somewhat scheming statement.

"I don't know…"

"Trust me, it's easy once you get the hang of it."

"Maybe for you." He bitterly bit his tongue under his breath. "I'd like to see _you_ try to concentrate on keeping your balance with the Joker as a peanut gallery."

"What was that?"

"…Nothing."

Dick held his gaze for a second.

"Tim, I didn't want to bring this up, but… Conner called me the other day. He told me, about the lab incident. He says you haven't been sleeping or eating much either."

Tim grit his jaw, feeling like a dagger had just been thrust in his gut. He couldn't believe his best (perhaps only) bud in the world would betray him like that.

"Damnit, Kon."

"Don't blame him, he's just worried about you too. I told you: You don't need to keep hiding things from us. We're here to help if you need anything. Babs too. If something's troubling you, you can talk to us."

"It's fine, I'm handling it."

Dick wouldn't desist, determined to get the truth out of him.

"Tim, I heard you yelling earlier. …He's back again, isn't he?"

The boy sighed in surrender, eyes slanting stage right. "…To your left, making faces."

His partner fixed him with stern concern.

"Are you off your meds again?"

"They don't _work_. Not as well as they used to."

"That doesn't mean you should just stop taking them."

"For _what_? So I can only experience the side effects?"

"So talk to Leslie. Ask her to adjust the dosage."

Tim made a hollow noise. "I'm already on the highest strength that's considered 'safe' for human consumption."

Dick pulled out his phone anyway and began dialing her number.

"I'm contacting her. There must be at least _something_ else we can try."

"Not Dr. Thompkins," Tim whined, as if a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"Look, either you call to make an appointment, or I will."

Tim seethed, grinding his teeth. "All right, fine. Jeeze. God, you and Barbara still both treat me like a fucking child."

"Yeah well, maybe if you stop acting like one."

"Whatever. Just hand me the phone. I'll talk to her."

Dick extended the cell towards Tim, who took it with all the enthusiasm of accepting a dirty sock.

"It's ringing."

He listened closely in on the conversation to confirm a meeting time was set up, before Tim returned the receiver.

"Here. She wants to talk to you."

Dick lifted the mobile to his ear.

"Hey, doc."

" _Hello, Richard. It's good to hear from you boys. How's the back treating you?"_

"Fine." He didn't want to dwell too much on his own health status, so he moved on to the matter at hand. "Is there anything we can do to help Tim?"

" _In such a rare and unusual case as this, it's hard to say. It'd be beneficial to start by identifying the root of his relapse. Once we pinpoint that, it'll be easier to formulate a treatment plan. It's possible it could just be due to the stress of moving to a new environment. It's good that you've been able to help support him through high school, but now that he's becoming independent it may be triggering a stronger separation anxiety response in him. Even if consciously he rejects it, the Joker ingrained himself as a parental figure in Tim's mind. Essentially, he equates that kind of attention with the nurturing love and protection he never properly received growing up. It's common for child victims of abuse to form a disorganized attachment to the caregiver, especially when the caregiver behaves in an inconsistent manner. The conflict of the caregiver being both a source of comfort and distress can cause the child to display contradictory patterns when faced with a stressful situation; instinct tells him to simultaneously avoid and approach the one who is mistreating him. In the absence of a familiar atmosphere he's accustomed to, he's likely seeking alternate methods of coping as a survival mechanism. Has he been under any kind of particular pressure lately?"_

Dick relayed the events leading up to the fainting spell, with little input from Tim beyond affirmative nods.

" _I see. It's certainly a sign of progress that he's trying to face his fears, but a heads-on approach might not be the best tactic."_

"I tried to tell him that. He won't listen."

" _I'll have a chat with him about it when I see him, hopefully we can find a way for him to succeed in his studies without compromising his sense of safety. One more question, this is important: Has he tried to harm himself?"_

"I… don't think so. I'll check, and let you know."

" _Please do."_

As Dick temporarily terminated the exchange, he rotated to see Tim had stood up and was headed towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Out for a smoke – walk – whatever. Just text me when you need me."

"Hold it." The harsh bark arrested the boy before he was halfway to the exit. "Wrists."

Tim swiveled with a sour countenance.

"Seriously? Do we really have to do this?"

"Show me."

He hissed, but obediently rolled up his sleeves, revealing bare but apparently unmarked skin.

"Satisfied?"

Dick advanced and examined him all over anyway, before nodding.

"All right. Now empty your pockets."

Tim tsked, feeling as violated as when the staff at the detention center frisked him on admittance for any concealed contraband. He dug through his possessions, retrieving objects one by one: phone, wallet, CD player, lighter, cigarettes, and finally – under Dick's demanding eye – the hidden pocketblade.

"Give me the knife."

He hesitated.

"Don't make me wrestle it from you."

Relinquishing, he slapped the weapon into Dick's grip without a word.

"Thank you. You can go, but try to keep near."

"Sure thing, Mom."

Dick deliberately chose to ignore the sardonic retort, used to receiving attitude by now. (For a fleeting moment, he mused if he ever gave Bruce this much frustration, although no doubt Alfred would certainly attest to it.)

After Tim left, Dick hit redial to reassuringly inform Leslie on the observed lack of self-inflicted damage to the patient's physical condition at least – and preemptive confiscation of means just to be safe – before bidding goodbye with a final beep. He sighed as he rubbed his neck, hoping his "tough love" hadn't come off as too deterring. He really wasn't good with this whole "parenting" thing, considering the primary role model he had for nearly half of his life after early adolescence.

As he picked up the memoir from the floor, he caressed his fingers feather-light over the cover, brushing off collected dust and disenchantment before delicately placing it on a shelf for easy viewing access. The rest he unceremoniously dumped in the "to toss" pile, purposefully cramming as much trash as he could on top. …After a few minutes though he fished them out again, rescuing from the base of the rubbish heap with ambivalent reluctance, restoring to the original package and sealing tightly with tape. They could remain upstairs for now at least – like his ruined Nightwing costume – evidence of old wounds and shattered bonds shuttered behind closed panel; tucked away in the dark recesses of his conscience, lurking and lingering deep in the shadows off-screen.

Out of sight, out of mind.

* * *

 _Two birds of a feather_  
 _Say that they're always gonna stay together_  
 _But one's never going to let go of that wire_  
 _He says that he will_  
 _But he's just a liar_

* * *

Ironically Dick later gets a clone himself in the "Hush Beyond" comic story arc (which is a mess in all sorts of ways but I'm considering canon for the sake of keeping "continuity").

On the subject of the tie-in comics though, one thing I love about Gotham Adventures is how they highlight Dick's fondness for music, wherein his musical knowledge actually comes in handy to help solve a couple cases. If you haven't read the series I highly recommend doing so for a lot more extra character development and wonderful BatFam interactions.

Also FYI all the photographs appeared in the show at some point. Cookie to whoever guesses which ep each is from. ;O

P.S. Happy Father's Day.


	7. Signal Fire

Just a quick update. (Or rather, how many quotes can I cram into one chapter. *shot*)

* * *

 _Well time has a way of throwing it all in your face_  
 _The past, she is haunted, the future is laced_  
 _Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car_  
 _Swear I was in the back seat, just minding my own_

-Gregory Alan Isakov, "Big Black Car"

* * *

 _Now._

"The Bat Signal is not a toy, Ms. Brown."

Startled, Stephanie swerved around at the sudden emergence of a man swathed in black from the shadows, cloak whipping wordlessly in the wind. She hadn't even heard him arrive on the rooftop.

 _How does he_ _ **do**_ _that?_

"You know my name?"

She asked, flustered.

"I make it my business to know. You're Stephanie Brown, daughter of Crystal and Arthur Brown, a.k.a. Cluemaster. …Tim Drake's girlfriend."

Stephanie blinked, sighing before lowering her mantle and removing the guise's (apparently ineffectual) inner layer, letting luminescent locks fall free around her shoulders. (Reasoning that if the cops hadn't come up to bust her by now, then it seemed rather unlikely they'd show up anytime soon.) … _Wish I knew what the heck to do with my hair under this thing,_ she thought idly as she combed her hand through the tangles. _Maybe I should try putting it in a ponytail or something._

"Then you probably know why I called you here then. Sorry about the theatrics," she gestured towards the spotlight, "But I figured this was the fastest way to get your attention."

"Tim told you about our history together."

"Some of it. He wouldn't tell me why you two split up."

There was a palpable beat.

"If he didn't see fit to explain, then it's not my place to intervene."

"Please, Mr. Wayne." Those crescent slits narrowed at equally intimate address. "I think I deserve to know at this point."

"This isn't any of your business, Ms. Brown. I suggest you go home, and get rid of that silly costume."

 _Like yours is any less ridiculous._

"This isn't a game. Quit before you get yourself into trouble."

 _Holy déjà vu._

She crossed her arms frankly, standing firm.

"Tim said the same thing. I'm getting real sick and tired of hearing it."

"He's right. The streets are far too risky, especially for someone like you." There was a rough rigor to his tenor; like a razor blade scraping severely against the grain, incisive and insistent. Deliberately rubbing salt and steel into the wound until it irritated. "I've seen how you operate: rash, reckless, impulsive, impetuous – not thinking before you act. You might believe you're being brave – that you're endeavoring to prove something by jumping directly into danger, putting yourself in the constant thick of threats – but you're just behaving brashly like a child. A person of your kind doesn't belong in this field."

Stephanie bristled at the blunt onslaught, blue irises burning boldly defiant.

"You don't understand: My dad was supposed to be _dead_ , and now he shows back up again in Gotham like nothing happened – except now he's committing crimes without even leaving clues. I couldn't just stand aside and let him get away with it. I had to do _something_. After all, I've got a stake in this."

Batman made a smothered sound, like a pained grunt – as if someone had just punched him in the gut.

"You sound just like he did. All you stupid kids, don't know what you're getting into."

"I know that without me you wouldn't have been able to figure out the next place my father was planning to hit."

 _Admit it, that "chopping mall" clue was a stroke of genius._

"And your assistance in bringing him down during the heist is appreciated. But this ends tonight. You should leave the crimefighting to trained professionals."

"I just wanted to help…"

Batman took a step forward, looming ominously over her. His voice was dangerous.

"You don't know _what_ you want. None of you ever did."

Despite the fierce menace in his tone, she staunchly stood her ground, eyes stubborn and challenging as she declined to back down. Her opponent carried on lecturing:

"You've accomplished your mission; succeeded in putting your father in jail. Now that you've gotten your revenge, there's no more reason for you to continue this fight anymore. I suppose you're just doing this now for fun, for the thrill. Because you think it's _'cool'_."

Stephanie clenched her fists. He had struck a chord, but she didn't take kindly to being patronized either, her entire motivations being put down, brushed aside just like that.

"That's not the only reason. I mean, yeah this just kinda started out as a goof to get back at my dad of course, and sure I'll confess I do get a kick out of the rush – but there's more to it than that. I may not be all that smart or skilled at… anything really. But this – this is something I can do to help others. People in need. For the first time in my life, it feels like I'm really doing something worthwhile, that I'm doing some good. Like I'm making a real difference. I'm doing this… I don't know. Not even for me." She turned towards the skyline, surveying over the (for the moment at least) peacefully sleeping city, lights reflecting above and below. "I'm doing this for all of them."

Batman stared at her.

"Regardless, this isn't your responsibility."

"And it's supposed to be solely yours? You're just one man in a batsuit, you're not in charge of this town. You may be able to handle all the crimes within the city limits, but the suburbs don't have anyone. Not even _you_ can be everywhere at once. Hell, no one can carry the weight of the world by himself."

"This is a vow I took on my own shoulder's, no one else's. I work alone."

"If you really thought that, why'd you agree to take an apprentice on in the first place?"

While visibly there was no noticeable wince, another wounded growl escaped from the cowl.

"That was a mistake."

"Oh really? I've seen how _you_ operate: Ever since you've gone partnerless, you've been colder, harsher, overly aggressive, and more unforgiving than ever before. Everyone's noticed; it's been all over news reports everywhere, criminals claiming to be the _'victims'_ of vigilante violence. All the tabloids assume you've gone off the deep end, that you've finally cracked – or that you were off your rocker all along. That's why they say even the police won't cooperate with you anymore." She looked towards the tarp lying on the ground, which had been covering the searchlight up to now. Lucky for her they hadn't removed the apparatus entirely. "You accuse _me_ of being hotheaded, but I could say the exact same of you. Heck, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you seem to have some sort of death wish."

"How I conduct myself is none of your concern."

"It is when there are people suffering for it. Tim included. The truth is Batman needs a Robin, doesn't he? Since your parents died, you need – _want_ company. Otherwise you'll go crazy, doing what you do all the time. Anyone would."

 _Way to play psychoanalyst with the most famous and powerful – not to mention richest – man in Gotham, girl._

Batman held her undeterred gaze.

"…You really do sound just like him."

Grudgingly, he gruffly acknowledged the comparison – though it wasn't quite a concession.

Still, Stephanie seized on the opening.

"Seriously, just what the hell happened? You two used to be such a great team. You guys were a legend, the 'Dynamic Duo' and all that. Nightwing and Batgirl too, whatever happened to them?"

His answer was aggravatingly simple.

"Things change."

 _Why do I get the feeling I've heard that somewhere before?_

She exhaled in exasperation, sensing the discussion was going in circles. She wasn't about to allow such curt tautology cut her off though.

"You used to mean something to people. _This_ ," she pointed purposefully at the symbol in the sky, before jabbing at the mirrored center of his chest, "…used to mean something. Sure, you could be scary sometimes, but it was clear that you _cared_. Now, it's like all the lives you save don't even matter anymore. All that exists in your mind – or your heart, whatever's left of it – that is, assuming you even still _have_ one – is darkness and dread. Am I wrong?"

Her assertive allegation was met with stony silence. Tentatively, she tried to uplift the weight on the conversation somewhat.

"Not everything has to be about fear. There's room in our line of work for hope too, you know."

Again, he merely remained mute, scrutiny slanting into the distance.

 _All right, fine. Don't answer me._

Growing annoyed by such obstinate reticence (which she recognized all too well at this point; it was no wonder where her boyfriend got it from) and desperate for some sort of reaction, she attempted to return again to the original topic – her whole goal for summoning this guy's big broody butt in the first place.

"Look, I'm sure you're as aware as I am this isn't just about me trying to barge in on your territory – your private little crusade – is it? I don't mean to pry open old wounds just for the sake of sating my curiosity either. _Something_ obviously happened between you two – something that changed him – that changed the both of you – and I need to know what in order to get through to him." She placed a palm on her breast, clutching and curling fretful fingers against cloth as she bit her lip, baring honest emotion. "I _want_ to be able to understand what he's going through, but every time I try to get him to talk about it, he won't let me near. Refuses to open up, shuts me out just like you've been doing all night."

His vision panned back slowly, restoring rapt concentration. Again, those slim slivers of snow were silent, searching – scant headlights scanning in the dark. Stark and cold against coal, yet somewhere within seemed to spark a vestige of warmth; like stoking, coaxing the burnt out ashes of an old flame to stir and rise again. To remember.

"Tim means a lot to you."

"The whole world. He's a great guy."

"Greater than he knows."

"Please," she begged, "Let me help him at least. I'm worried about him."

He regarded her unwavering expression, gauging sincerity.

"…You really care for him, don't you?"

She nodded, thinking to herself that- despite his still-outwardly icy demeanor, there was indeed a thaw in his throat, a slight swell of sympathy slipping through the grave gravel.

He rotated with a sharp whisk of cape, heading for the edge of the roof.

"Come with me."

She followed, taking cue to simultaneously fumble for her cheap grapple as he reached for his own (no doubt state-of-the-art) device. Whilst descending down the decel line, Batman pressed a button on his utility belt, and a rumble hummed from down the road as a long, sleek, jet-black vehicle charged along the street, skidding to a stop right in front of them as they alighted on the sidewalk. The hood automatically slid back upon recognizing its owner, inviting within the depths of its leather wings.

 _HolycraptheBatmobile._

She hesitated as he walked round to the driver's side and climbed in, casting an expectant – impatient – glance at his guest.

"Well. Hurry up and get in."

"O- okay."

 _Dear Diary, whatever you do, don't tell my mom I agreed to get into a strange car in the middle of the night with a shady man wearing a mask. Pretty sure she'd flip her shit._

She hopped in after, settling against the cozy cushions. Leave it to a billionaire to be able to afford the best quality sitting material. Admiring the impressive array of controls on the dashboard, she figured the machine in itself probably cost more than her whole house combined.

"Hang on," he warned as they lurched forward, "And don't touch anything."

Stephanie hastily withdrew her itchy fingers from the nearest knob, sweating nervously.

"Can I ask what this does at least?"

"Passenger seat ejector."

She shrank back sullenly, leaning slumped into the lavish upholstery.

 _Mock me at your peril, masked man._

As they sped past buildings and streetlamps, Steph inquired with a hunch as to their destination:

"So are we going to your hideout?"

"I prefer to think of it as a lair."

She couldn't tell whether that was supposed to be a joke or not. Either way, she couldn't help but feel a hint of giddy excitement at her current situation. Not many people could proudly proclaim they got to ride in the freakin' _Batmobile_ once during their lives.

 _Cool._

* * *

 _Hope was a letter I never could send_  
 _Love was a country we couldn't defend_

 _And through the carnival we watch them go round and round_  
 _All we knew of home was just a sunset and some clowns_


	8. Taking Pains

Sorry for the wait! Hope you all enjoy~

* * *

 _I do whatever suits my mood, a boy picking out enemies and fighting  
_ _No hopes for the future, I waited to be drawn in a dream_  
 _And yet I fear the future, hating tomorrow, wishing towards the past_  
 _There's no longer anything I can do, so I shout out,_  
 _"Tomorrow, tomorrow, please, don't come."_

-Orangestar, "Night Sky Patrol of Tomorrow"

* * *

 _Then._

Outside the loft, Tim wasted no time in lighting up another cigarette, taking in slow drawls as he let the decaying darkness further fill his lungs' capacity. Eroding, eating away at his contaminated heart's cavity even more; corroding an already corrupted spirit down to its very core.

He stuffed his palms in his pockets as he strolled sullenly down the street, ambling aimlessly through sidewinding lanes and alleyways without any particular purpose in mind. He just needed to get away – from his own thoughts and dreams and desires. …They kept persistently pursuing him wherever he went though, no matter how hard he tried to make the memories – madness – go away.

Dick was right to be worried. As much as he hated to admit it, he felt as if his brain was about to burst, break into a billion bits at any moment. Overload and short-circuit. Like his blackened, burning chest was going to blow up – throw up into a nearby trashbin.

Inhaling a final puff, he discarded the stick of toxic smoke with a flick, putting out its worn butt with the heel of his sole. Cruelly crushing ambition underfoot until smote, snuffing out any lingering flames of hope within his hellbound soul. Firmly extinguishing the last flickering bold sparks, diminishing gold. Expiring remnants of aspiration through thick clouds of coughing exhale – ruined respiration.

A grave autumn chill gusted through the passage, rolling littered newspapers about the gutters. Drawing his hood up against the draft, he took off at a brisk jog – before breaking into a run. Fleeing from shadows and whispers, spurred on by sinister smiles and sickening snickers. Just to see how far he could go before he had to quit.

Eventually exhaustion caught up with him, and he paused to catch his breath. Stopping, he stooped low enough to drip cold sweat from his face to the floor, panting heavily. Bent over with both hands relying on weedy knees for support, winded and wheezing.

He could still hear laughter, voices. Louder than before. Too loud. Too many. Many…?

It took a minute for him to realize he didn't recognize the choral pitch. The bullying bellows were too braying, too brash to be _him_. …And they were coming from around the corner.

Tiptoeing forward, he pressed his back to the wall, sidling along the edge to peer round the bend – and balked at what he saw.

Jokerz. A bunch of them, ganging up on a girl. _That_ girl. That sweet, stupid, stubborn girl.

He stood frozen, knowing what the situation spelled. Years ago he wouldn't have hesitated to leap straight into the fray, to another's rescue without even thinking. After all, there was no way he could just stand by when someone was in trouble right before him… Right?

His legs were quaking though. He could deal with an earthquake, that at least he could handle. But this- this was different. Disasters caused damage. _People_ caused pain.

He could turn around and walk away. No one would know. No one would blame him. Be a "standard" bystander by simply calling the police, let the proper authorities take care of it. …If there was even anything left to take care of by the time they arrived.

 _So you're just going to run away?_

The voice wasn't his own. It wasn't Joker's either.

He rotated to see a young girl standing right next to him; smooth raven bob-cut framed perfectly around a pretty porcelain doll-face with rosy cherub cheeks, and shining almond eyes tilted up, shimmering with a child's wonder. A familiar raggedy red sweater and yellow top (colors he himself used to wear with pride) and short black skirt – too short for this kind of weather, let alone someone her age (he chides himself for just realizing this now). …The choked collar imprisoning around her neck – as if evidence of belonging to someone else, body shackled to another's.

"Annie…"

She smiled.

 _What happened to the brave Robin I used to know? I bet he'd be out there heroing and kicking butt right now._

He shook his head.

"I can't."

 _Sure you can. You've done it before. You protected me from those bikers, remember?_

He swallowed.

"But in the end, I still couldn't save you."

She reached out to touch his hand, but he couldn't feel anything. She wasn't real, after all.

 _You tried your best. That counts for something at least. The fact you cared when no one else did, made me feel like I was someone who_ _ **mattered**_ _when I didn't even know my own name – that meant more to me than anything. Just your kindness alone was enough._

Denying, he attempted to avert away.

"I'm not that kind of person anymore."

The corners of her mouth faded, settling into a slight frown.

 _So then what- You're going to completely ignore this? What if that girl gets hurt?_

He couldn't say, that he was the one afraid of getting hurt – again. She let go in disappointment, expression buried by the lowered shade of her bangs.

 _Coward._

He blinked, and she was gone.

"Annie…? Annie wait, please don't go!"

 _Silly, I'm still here._

Her lilting cadence giggled from somewhere high above him. Alarmed, his anxious glance darted, flitting frantically about the dim space- and spotted her sitting on the edge of a fire escape balcony, swinging her slim legs (bare save for the sloe soles of her boots) between the bars. He watched in growing horror as she slowly ascended and climbed up on top of the railing, balancing on one toe with outstretched arms as she teetered treacherously on the narrow beam. Losing purchase on her previously precarious perch.

"Annie, what are you doing?" he hissed, "That's dangerous. Get down from there this instant."

Like a bird about to take flight, she spread wings wide.

 _Catch me, Robin._

She was going to fall. She was too far, he couldn't catch her in time. Not without grapples or stolen grace. She trusted him. _Why?_ He had to move. He couldn't. He was too scared. _…Of what?_

 _ **Move**_ _, damnit._

He dove, just barely making the mark. However she merely ghosted through him, coasting carefree as she alighted with a twirl.

 _See? You_ _ **do**_ _still care._

He clenched his knuckles, scraping dirt from the sidewalk.

"You tricked me."

She knelt beside him, hugging her knees with a half-apologetic grin.

 _It worked though, didn't it, Robin?_

He curled his fingers further, nails digging, dragging through the filth. Impressing it into his own befouled flesh.

"I'm not Robin anymore. You shouldn't call me that."

Inclining forward, her pure lips parted, lightly planting an affectionate peck on his unsuspecting cheek. Though he still couldn't physically sense the gesture, the innocent adolescent kiss sent a warm, tingling charge through his spine.

 _You'll always be a hero to me, Robin. No matter what you think or say. No matter what he says. I'm… really glad I got to meet you, even if it was only for a short time._

He gulped as she brushed a palm over his rapidly beating breast, measuring understandable conflict and confusion – but also the courage she knew still existed somewhere deep down.

 _You want to help her, don't you? So go. Be her hero, like you were for me. It'll be all right this time, I promise._

Her words convinced. Even though the primarily rational part of him – prevailing logic – had to consider it an empty platitude given the speaker's imaginary status… His conscience buoyed, emboldened by it. While still somewhat unsteady, he wobbled to his feet and advanced to check on the current circumstances.

One of the thugs – clearly the leader – had moved forward and was looming with a leering sneer over his prey, who glared back defiantly.

"Hey, you're pretty cute, missy. Want to play with us?"

He hungrily lunged a rude paw towards her.

 _Please don't do anything dumb_ , Tim thought (though he wasn't exactly sure whom the statement was directed more towards at this stage).

Her immediate knee-jerk response was to slap the jerk in the face. Tim mentally cheered and facepalmed at the time.

The brute simply rubbed at the bruise with an unaffected smirk.

"Feisty, eh? I kinda like that. Come on, whaddya say?"

He grabbed at the offending hand, but the victim only followed up with an even severer strike using her free fist.

"…Okay, now you're starting to get on my nerves," he growled as he spit blood, smearing scarlet across white with the back of his gloved hand. "You've just made a big mistake, girlie."

His posse began to encroach, humming eagerness like a low swarm of cicadas. Glee gleaming from their visages and weapons as they tapped the bludgeons against their gauntlets, drumming metrically.

Tim bit his bottom lip, every deeply ingrained instinct in him screaming to back away. But he felt a mild breeze push against his back, small angel's song murmuring softly over his shoulder, deterring devil's advocate.

 _Go. You can do this, Robin._

He steeled himself, and stepped out from the shadows.

"Leave her alone."

The gang all revolved towards the interruption, and guffawed at the scrawny sight.

"What's this? Some kind of joke? You know who you're messing with, kid?"

He noted their target brighten in relief at an unexpected savior. Admiring audacious act with attentive appreciation – anticipation – obviously grateful for the temporary distraction. He reasserted himself, endeavoring to reassure, put on a brave front.

"A bunch of circus freaks?"

Admittedly not his best counter-quip, but he was sorely out of practice, and he couldn't really think straight right now, with so much fight-or-flight adrenaline pumping through veins, thumping thunderous in his ears. The group scoffed and elbowed each other, only slightly slighted by such scornful disdain – especially coming from what appeared to be someone almost half their size, despite likely similar age. To these evolutionary spawn gone wrong, who operated on principle of "survival of the fittest", a pipsqueak so puny and weak had no right to speak. (Although how they expected to be taken seriously in those ridiculous outfits in the first place was anyone's guess.)

"Maybe you missed the memo, but see this?" The hulking head of the pack pointed at his grotesque pallor. "This means we're Jokerz. You know? As in the 'Clown Prince of Crime'? Since he seems to have either up and left this hole or finally kicked the bucket for good, we've taken over the 'mission' in his absence. We're here to carry on his legacy. You're looking at his heirs, the new kings and queens, true rulers of Gotham. We _run_ this town."

Surprisingly, it was Steph's turn to roll her eyes and retort:

"If you ask me, all you inherited is his terrible fashion sense."

The dominant whirled around, wrenching her wrist. "Watch it," he snarled. "Shut your mouth, wench."

"Hey! Let her go."

Tim snapped, but the boss blatantly ignored the order with a derisive chuckle.

"See? Our motto's the same as his creed: Cause all sorts of random chaos and destruction, murder and mayhem for kicks, just 'cuz we can. 'Cuz it's _schway_. Am I right, guys?"

Hardly able to contain hilarity over recounting his own (supposed) list of horrible deeds, the rippling mirth ripped through the ringleader's ribcage and into his throat, radiating out as his rabble audience roused in agreement. Laughing lurid like loons.

"There you have it. We don't listen to no one else tell us what to do. Like him, we take what we want, when we want."

Tim tsked at the sorry excuse, equally unimpressed by such cheap imitations who used his most hated villain's – _tormenter's_ – name as a crutch. Hiding behind someone else's shadow. He muttered under his breath:

"You have _no_ idea what Joker's like."

"What was that, shorty?"

"I said _get lost_."

The crowd erupted into raucous amusement again, hooting and hollering.

"This coming from a wimpy shrimp who looks like he's about to piss his pants? Why don't you run on home and cry to Mommy and Daddy, you runty little brat?"

Tim's fist tautened. He tried his hardest to conceal terrified trembling as he took a step forward to determinedly meet the other's gaze.

"I'm warning you."

"Ooh, I'm so scared." The menace mocked as he clutched his captive tighter, causing her to cringe, though she resisted crying out. "What are you gonna do about it, squirt?"

"This."

A startlingly strong force launched into the aggressor's gut, and he swiftly relinquished his hold as he doubled over in discomfort. Tim quickly turned to the released hostage.

"Run," he told her. "I'll hold 'em off."

Stephanie stared at him, unmoving. _Why wasn't she listening?_

His opponent groaned as he got to his feet, gripping his ribs.

"Why you snotnosed _punk_." He grimaced, fumbling for his pouch to whip out a knife, steel flashing as he swung wildly at Tim (who briefly wished he still had his own). Before either of them knew it though, Tim had used that trick Bruce once taught him to disarm a larger foe and knocked him back down. The heap winced in writhing agony, but staunchly staggered up again, putting up daisy dukes.

"That tears it. It's on now." He turned towards the mob of stunned onlookers, barking. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get that dreg!"

They fell upon him, but he dodged and weaved like water, muscles reacting before his mind, remembering all those old moves he used to drill every day until they became but basic reflex – half-improvising on the fly. One by one, he took them out with ease, dropping like flies. _"Small fry,"_ Batman used to call them. _"Focus on the alpha. Once he's down, the others will follow." (_ But Batman would never let him go up against the real big bads by himself. Not yet. Batman knew best.)

It was almost frightening, how effortless the rhythm was to slip back into. Privately, he might have even dared say he was starting to enjoy it a bit, feel that former rush of exhilaration from a fulfilling punch or kick. …And maybe that scared him most of all.

All of a sudden, the fight was disrupted by a shout ringing out, snapping him to attention:

"Hey, look out! Behind you!"

He turned, like a trance, and saw a female Joker raising a crowbar high above her head, cackling upon catching quarry unawares. And just like that, he's abruptly back in that dead-end alley with Harley and her oversized hammer, and he can't move, can't think, can't breathe. It all goes entirely blank as the mallet comes crashing down in slow-motion-

" _In this line of work, one slip is too many."_

He felt arms around his waist as someone tackled him from behind, heaving desperately out of harm's away. The metal managed to graze his temple, making him dizzy and nauseous, but he was still conscious. He heard a loud _crack_ coming from around his abdomen as he landed on the ground face-down and separated from the other lump, rolling away on automatic impulse. At first he thought maybe he'd broken something, but when he touched at the tender part through the cloth he realized it was Dick's CD that had fractured. _Shit._ He'd forgotten all about it. He'd have to apologize to Dick later, when this was all over. …Because it would be over soon, one way or another. It had to be. He couldn't _take_ much more of this.

Before he could rise though, the remaining number of adversaries descended, dogpiling on him, pinning every single one of his limbs. As much as he squirmed and strained to escape, he was effectively outnumbered. Couldn't move an inch. They held him down securely as the top cur approached, brandishing the blade he'd managed to retrieve during the scuffle. He yanked harshly at Tim's hair, drawing the tip close to his quivering lips.

"I'm going to carve a great big smile onto your fucking face, pretty boy. Teach you a lesson; no one makes a fool out of me. Then I'll have some fun with your bitch while you watch, before I cut you both up."

 _This was it_ , Tim thought. He had failed. He was going to die. He was going to die. Before he could even get a chance to say sorry to Dick or Barbara or Bruce. He'd never get to go home – to his soft, safe bed and games and comic books and precious action figure collection (that his once boasting pride pretended he was getting too old for) – to be with his family, listen to Dick's lame puns and spar with Barbara and spin around in the old man's chair and eat Alfred's warm, homemade cookies fresh-baked from the oven again. Never get to fly once more beside them, see their smiles or the sun or the beautiful symbol in the night sky as they soared together through the stars, that used to fill him with hope, such hope…

Then, without warning, as if in answer to his prayer: a lucky break – or rather _brick_ – torpedoed square at his assailant's jaw with pinpoint accuracy, propelling him back as he yelped and yowled in anguish, dropping the knife. Tim twisted his neck to see Stephanie in a prominent post-thrown stance, readying another projectile from a convenient pile neighboring one of the dilapidated buildings.

 _Holy crap._

"Who are you calling a bitch, huh? Why don't you try picking on someone your own size?" She glowered fiercely at the rest. "Who else wants a piece of this?"

His subduers – now practically sitting ducks – instantly relented and scurried out of the way, scrambling to safety.

"Yeah you'd _better_ run."

Tim wasn't done though. Accumulated anger and aggression swelled in his stomach as he jumped on his would-be attacker, seizing opportunity and collar as he wailed on him in retaliation – retribution. Seeing nothing but red and ashen gray, seething rage. He pounded repeatedly, relentlessly – pummeling to a bloody pulp – flecks of pale paint mixed with crimson pain staining his skin with each contact. No matter how many times he slammed his berserk fist into that horrid face though, it wouldn't stop laughing. Goading him to hit harder. And maybe he's laughing too. He can't tell anymore. All he knows is it feels so damn _satisfying_ to lay into him, every single second a blow connected, for all the times the evil bastard threw the godamn switch-

"Hey, stop! You're gonna kill him!"

His hand halted as he felt slender fingers wrap around his wrist – gentle, not too forceful – but urgent. Insistent.

"As much as I totally agree he deserves worse, I think he's had enough."

Tim blinked and looked down, gradually registering the moaning, mangled mess beneath him. He hastily liberated the lapel, and the battered creature crawled miserably away, wounded and whimpering (no longer simpering). A few loitering loyal stragglers hurried to help him up.

"Dude, let's get out of here. This guy's _insane_."

Licking injuries, they pathetically limped away with tails between their legs, casting petrified peeks over their shoulders. Tim hunched in on himself as he sank to his hands and knees in slumped defeat, shuddering numbly with shame and regret. Tentatively, Stephanie extended towards him.

"Are you… okay?"

Funny, normally it was supposed to be the other way around. He was the one who should typically be asking that kind of question.

"I'm fine."

 _Like hell you are._

"You don't _look_ fine."

He was shaking all over. He felt like he was going to be ill. He honestly never thought he'd be doing anything like this again. Ever.

"I _said_ I'm all right. Just… leave me alone."

He grit his teeth, scarcely stabilizing as he elevated. He didn't get very far before he stumbled though, leaning against a proximate barrier as a brace, struggling to remain standing even with the aid of a stanchion. Stephanie creased her brow in increasing concern, clasping his hand.

"Come on."

She declared as she began resolutely pulling along, leading in a decisive direction. Tim was too tired to even protest at this point, so he sluggishly – robotically – followed her coaxing tug, trailing obediently after like a trained, tame pet. Utterly drained and devoid of emotion.

"Where are we going?"

He inquired with cautious curiosity, weary but still wary.

Without missing a beat, she replied:

"My house."

* * *

 _Leaving the old me behind,_  
 _the moon sets, and the sun rises_  
 _but that night was different from all the others_  
 _when you took my hand..._

* * *

P.S. Happy Annieversary~


	9. Niflheim

Just another quick update. (P.S. Shazam was pretty fun~)

* * *

 _Wild beam, wild boy, you burn so bright_  
 _'Till you illuminate_  
 _One day you're out, you give up the fight_  
 _You slow down heart-rate  
_

-Jónsi, "Boy Lilikoi"

* * *

 _Now._

As they approached the expansive (and exorbitantly expensive) Wayne estate Stephanie had only seen in T.V. broadcasts and celebrity magazines before, she became alarmed as the Batmobile abruptly swerved, swaying away from the winding driveway up to the manor – and towards the mountainside instead.

"Uh… Batman?"

He didn't answer her. Her panic mounted as they continued to speed straight towards the cliff rocks, and she quickly covered her eyes in anticipatory dread, awaiting inevitable impact.

"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod."

 _Goodbye, cruel world. Diary, tell my mom I love her. And that I want "Purple Rain" played at my funeral._

She braced herself, praying passionately to God to get her out of this sorry mess; nay, better yet – Superman. …Several seconds passed though, and she didn't feel anything other than the vehicle slowing to a stop. She heard the canopy hiss open as the driver spoke gruffly next to her.

"You may open your eyes now, Ms. Brown."

Peeking through the parts in her glove gaps, she exhaled in relief to find herself still (blessedly) in one piece, and gasped as she gaped at her surroundings – which certainly resembled hell more than heaven. They were sitting inside an enormous cavern – dank and dark and daunting – creatures of the night flitting to and fro amongst stalactites overhead. Fitting.

 _So that's where he gets the name from. …At least, I hope that it was inspired. Don't tell me he imported bats just to fit the bill. 'Cuz that'd be weird. And crazy. Crazy weird._

Her mind rustled nervously, thoughts racing a mile a minute as she followed Batman out of the car, marveling at the monstrosity of it all.

"Wow. This is actually it. The Batcave." She breathed in admiration. She'd heard rumors about the place, but no one had ever proven its existence. As they passed by bizarre timeless monuments, such as a giant penny and life-size model of a Tyrannosaurus Rex – an almost startlingly realistic replica – she felt small and humbled, mumbling. "Is it really all right for me to be here?"

Batman halted, revolving towards her.

"Tim trusts you. Therefore I trust you. …But the fact remains neither of you are cut out for this job."

Frustration frosted her face again, biting and bristling. She shot an icy scowl of both snow and smoldering daggers, a look her mother taught her that was somehow simultaneously glacial and molten; irritably giving third degree glare in return for the burn – on both behalves.

"So what, you're saying you fired him? What on _earth_ did he do that was so awful?"

He looked away again – towards a row of glass cases containing three sets of costumes – zeroing in on the red at the end.

"This isn't the first time he's revealed our secrets to an outsider."

She nipped her hasty lip in the bud, taken aback by this unexpected disclosure. Racking her brain for ways to justify.

"Well… I'm sure he must have a good reason for it."

His slim slits narrowed further, tone stiffening significantly.

"That reason is why he is no longer Robin. Why there will never _be_ another Robin."

She observed as he crossed over to a large monitor display, boots clicking hard and harsh against the stone. Tentatively, she trailed after, brushing her fingers over the memorials along the way, lingering on the last. Her throat swallowed, sensing she wouldn't like what she was about to hear. …But there was no going back now.

"Please. Just tell me what happened." She steeled herself. "No matter how bad it is, I can take it."

His tenor grew heavier as he booted up the computer.

"Robin was out on patrol alone one night when he came upon a woman in danger. He went to her rescue, but it turned out to be a trap. Do you recall there used to be a criminal mastermind who called himself the Joker?"

"The one who dressed up like a clown? That all those lame street punks fashion themselves after? Yeah, who could forget?"

"He had an accomplice. A woman who went by the name of Harley Quinn. She pretended to be a victim to lure Robin, then knocked him out when his back was turned. The two captured him and took him to old Arkham asylum. …This is what proceeded."

He pressed a button on the control panel, and a movie started to play.

The screen flickered white, static weaving in and out like an old timey film. Blurred text zoomed dizzily into view:

" _Our Family Memories"_

The introductory card fell away, revealing a pair of feet next to a mysterious liquid puddle. A gloved hand beckoned to ascend, and the camera panned upwards in stuttered slow motion to a devilish grinning visage: The Joker, clad in what appeared to be a set of hospital scrubs. He was standing beside a table, beakers and flasks and test tubes bubbling with some kind of noxious chemical concoction in the background. The view lazed idly across to show an assortment of instruments; some sharp, some shocking – some so completely strange she could only _imagine_ what they were possibly used for.

The scene jumped – briefly – and her heart fluttered. There was Tim – Robin – looking extremely young and vulnerable. He was strapped to some kind of steel stretcher, struggling frantically to escape. Trying his best (to be brave, bless), writhing and wriggling wrists in every direction. The image only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to send a shudder of sympathy through her spine.

Cut to Joker again, now sporting an innocuous chef's hat on his head, matched with a ridiculous apron that read, of all things: _Kiss the Cook_. He was waving cheerfully beside a barbecue grill, poised in front of a bunch of makeshift stage props mimicking someone's suburban lawn, complete with picturesque picket fence. There was a close-up as he lifted the lid, licking his lips and wiggling extended creepers like eager worms. He retrieved from within a pair of metal clamps, gleefully snapping them open and shut as sparks excited from their alligator teeth.

She held her breath in wavering suspense as he hooked the fastener onto the gurney, its tethered captive still valiantly straining against the belted bonds with all his might. Joker positioned himself over the machine lever, and for an excruciating moment, there was utter stillness – save for his prey's petrified shaking.

He flipped the switch.

Her hands flew to her mouth. There was no sound, so she couldn't hear the screams, but agonizing pain clearly carved onto the boy's contorted countenance as his convulsive back arched – _ached_ – whole body howling in what must be unfathomable, unbearable anguish. She could hardly even watch, but she had to. Forced herself to keep eyes wide open. Wincing. As lights and laughter and lost innocence flashed before them in rapid succession. Tears forming at the corners of his, despite desperate fighting – biting – to hold back. She felt like she was about to cry too – because there was absolutely nothing she could do – to help him, _save_ him – long after the fact. His tormenter was cackling madly the entire time, seeming to delight in flicking the power on and off. Again and again and _again_.

Batman paused the feed. He seemed to be skipping ahead, and she wasn't sure whether it was out of consideration for her sensitivities or to spare his own. Just how much more _was_ there?

Following fast-forward, Stephanie's stomach sickened even more at the next sight. Turning and churning, urging to chuck – a brick right at Joker's repulsive chin.

"My God," she whispered. "What are they _doing_ to him?"

The two jesters were huddled around a hunched shape, which she barely recognized as Robin at this point. No- He wasn't Robin anymore, not without the suit or seeming sense of clarity. Sanity.

"Tim" looked… deteriorated. Disoriented. _Defeated_. Dead and bloodshot eyes swimming dim in a glass daze, staring directly – dully – at the lens – quite obviously drugged. Smiling but not seeing. Teeth and lips stretched obscenely broad, the latter darkened in shade. Though the picture was purely in black and white, she could tell they were applying lighter musk – masquerade – on top of already pale, pinched cheeks. Drained of rainbow vibrance and vitality where there wasn't even color to begin with.

She looked on in rising revulsion as they primped, preened, and prepped, beaming as they patted his sunken shoulders like proud parents. Caressing, combing greased hair back in loving(?) strokes. Dressed and tucked and cut down to proper size, fitting perfectly snug and tight (no more putting up a fight) into neatly pressed uniform folds until he fancied his "father" – right down to the miniature disgusting bowtie and identical flower boutonnière. Bright neon clown's corsage contrasting with monochrome makeup. Like playing dress-up with a rag doll; a make-believe game of house, living out domestic dream.

They had turned him into a nightmare.

She curled her fists, clenching.

"How long?"

"Three weeks."

She couldn't believe it. A whole month… He had to endure that kind of horrible, humiliating treatment. _Torture_ , plain and simple. To a mere child no less. It was no wonder he looked entirely empty by the end of it (a look she sadly realized hadn't really fully went away afterwards – and likely never would – no matter how many years it's been since). …There was practically nothing left of her love in front of her but a lifeless, hollow shell. Like some kind of broken toy figure – steadfast tin soldier warped beyond recognition by the unforgiving flames, and malevolently molded into a marionette instead. Passive puppet. Meek and submissive puppy, trained – _ingrained_ – to be terrified of punishment, probably for even placing a single paw an inch out of line.

She carried on with calm, but frigid cold fury.

"The Joker… is dead now, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Good."

There was a lengthy lull in conversation.

"…You're not going to ask how he died."

Her knuckles balled on top of knotted breast. Knitting brows as she gazed at the confused expression of conflict – disordered conduct – in the poor kid's roving, raving pupils as he began to giggle maniacally. Helplessly. Hopelessly. Like some kind of discordant cord – _code_ – had snapped within, unleashing all the wild, unbridled demons buried deep in one's subconscious. Reveling in release, letting unfettered chaos reign.

"Tim's strong. Stronger than he knows." A sinking surmise weighted her gut. "…He wouldn't be _this_ afraid and ashamed to tell me unless he did something so terrible he couldn't take back."

Batman regarded her with what might be considered mild wonder, if not raised respect.

"…You have a lot of faith in him."

She shifted shining irises, damp but undeterred.

"Don't _you_?"

For a minute, there was silence. Then, a loud slam suddenly resounded, resonating from somewhere high above as a familiar echo yelled down, slicing shrill and seismic through the chill air:

" _Bruce_! You're down there, aren't you? Answer me!"

Stephanie spun around in surprise.

"Tim?"

He descended the steps in a breathless hurry, stopping short at the base of the staircase when he witnessed the two together – and behind them, his haunted history so nakedly exposed through vile video, unraveling reel. Rerunning. Reflecting. Revolting. …Like looking in a twisted funhouse mirror.

"Is that…?"

Frozen horror immediately transformed into blazing rage as he bolted by Steph and hurled his heated fist at Batman, hurtling hurt and betrayed emotions. The target made no effort to dodge as the fierce, fiery punch landed square on his locked jaw, accepting (admittedly somewhat deserved) damage yet standing firm ground. Tim thus roughly grabbed his opponent's collar with both hands, violently thrashing against the keyboard terminal with all his strength, shutting it down.

"You fucking _**bastard**_! How _dare_ you! You said you destroyed them! You _swore_!"

Batman remained unruffled as he simply replied in self-defense:

"If you wanted her to stop, this is the fastest way."

"That doesn't just give you the right to reveal everything! It's _my_ life, it wasn't _your_ decision to make! How the hell could you _do_ this to me?! Go behind my godamn back like this?!" Tim choked with anger, hold trembling as he slowly sank in despondent response, dwindling into despair. "…I wasn't _ready_ for this."

"By the time you were ready she could've already gotten herself killed."

… _Um, hello? I'm standing right here. Can you quit talking about me as if I'm not even present?_

Stephanie worriedly tried to interject herself between them, attempting unsuccessfully to push or pull apart.

"Will both of you just _stop_?!"

Tim didn't even dare to look at her, keeping lowered vision focused on the floor.

"Tim, I'm sorry. I was the one who asked to know. It's my fault, I insisted on him telling me. I didn't mean to cause trouble for you, I just… wanted to help…"

He gulped, letting go with a weary sigh.

"Steph… Can you wait for me upstairs?"

She hesitated, glancing back and forth between the two with concern.

"You're not going to keep fighting, are you?"

"No," Tim composed, shoving palms inside his pockets. His speech sounded incredibly tired, vacant eyes exhausted and evasive. "…I'm done fighting. I just want to talk."

Batman said nothing as he straightened. Though still yearning to say more herself – tell Tim all the multitude of things she should've a long time ago, comfort and embrace and apologize profusely for too much, too late – Steph suppressed her tongue for now and nodded.

"…Okay."

She cast one more anxious glimpse back before obligingly starting up the stairwell. She didn't know where it led exactly, but if her boyfriend wanted privacy – _peace_ – right now, she would gladly give it. …Even if merciful pardon – let alone supportive understanding of one's partner – was already far, far too delayed, in so many ways.

* * *

 _Electricity wires are down_  
 _Rainbow colours fading to brown_  
 _Adventurous smile shifting to frown_  
 _Courageous boy, now you're a clown_


End file.
